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PASTICHE 
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PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 


PASTICHE 


AND 


PREJUDICE 

BY 

A.  B.  WALKLEY 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF    MCMXXI 


Reprinted,  by  ilie  courtesy  of  Ihe  Propriciors. 
/rem  Tim  Times. 


Printed  iw  Oreat  Britain. 


Pfp  LIBRARY 

•  '^  UNIVEPvPITV  OF  ^  ALIFORNIA 

ioOHo  SANTA  BMIBARA 

P3 


PASTICHE 

Writing  of  Lamennais,  Renan  says  :  "  II  crca 
avec  des  reminiscences  de  la  Bible  et  du  langagc 
ecclesiastique  cette  manierc  harmonicuse  et  grandiose 
qui  realise  le  phenomcnc  unique  dans  I'histoire 
litterairc  d'un  pastiche  de  genie."  Rcnan  was 
nothing  if  not  fastidious,  and  "  unique  "  is  a  hard 
word,  for  which  I  should  like  to  substitute  the 
milder  "  rare."  Pastiches  "  of  genius  "  arc  rare 
because  genius  is  rare  in  any  kind,  and  more  than 
ever  rare  in  that  kind  wherein  the  writer  deliberately 
forgoes  his  own  natural,  instinctive  form  of  expression 
for  an  alien  form.  But  even  fairly  plausible  pastiches 
are  rare,  for  the  simple  reason  that  though,  with  taste 
and  application,  and  above  all  an  anxious  care  for 
style,  you  may  succeed  in  mimicking  the  literary 
form  of  another  author  or  another  age,  it  is  impossible 
for  you  to  reproduce  their  spirit — since  no  two  human 
beings  in  this  world  arc  identical.  Perhaps  the 
easiest  of  all  kinds  is  the  theatrical  "  imitation," 
because  all  that  is  to  be  imitated  is  voice,  tone, 
gesture — an  actor's  words  not  being  his  own — yet  1 
have  never  seen  one  that  got  beyond  parody.  The 
sense  of  an  audience  is  not  line  enough  to  appreciate 
exact  imitation  ;  it  demands  exaggeration,  caricature. 


PASTICHE    AND    PllEJUDICE 

Parody,    indeed,    is    tiic    pitfall    of   all   pastiche. 
Even    Mr.    Max    Bccrbohm,    extraordinarily    sus- 
ceptible and  responsive  to  style  as  he  is,  did  not 
escape  it  in  that  delightful  little  book  of  his  wherein, 
some  years  ago,  he  imitated  many  of  our  contempo- 
rary authors.     I  can  think  of  but  a  single  instance 
whieh  faithfully  reproduces  not  only  the  language 
but   almost   the    spirit   of  the   authors    imitated — 
M.  Marcel  Proust's  volume  of  ''  Pastiches  et  Me- 
langes."    The  only  stricture  one  can  pass  on  it,  if 
stricture   it   be,    is   that   M.    Proust's   Balzac   and 
St.  Simon  and  the  rest  are  a  little  "  more  Royalist 
than  the  King,"  a  little  more  like  Balzac  and  St. 
Simon  than  the  originals  themselves  ;     I  mean,   a 
little  too  intensely,  too  concentratedly,  Balzac  and 
St.  Simon.     But  Marcel  Proust  is  one  of  my  preju- 
dices.    To  say  that  his  first  two  books,  "  Swann  " 
and    "  Les   Jeunes    Filles,"    have   given    me    more 
exquisite  pleasure  than  anything  in  modern  French 
literature  would  not  be  enough — I  should  have  to 
say,  in  all  modern  literature.     Mrs.  Wharton,  I  see 
from  the  "  Letters,"  sent  Henry  James  a  copy  of 
"  Swann  "  when  it  first  came  out  (191.3) :    I  wish  we 
could  have  had  his  views  of  it.     It  offers  another 
kind  of  psychology  from  Henry  James's,  and  he 
would  probably  have  said,  as  he  was  fond  of  saying, 
that  it  had  more  "  saturation  "  than  "  form."'     But 
I  am  wandering  from  my  subject  of  pasticJie. 

I  was  present  one  afternoon  at  a  curious  experi- 
ment in  theatrical  pastiche.     This  was  a  rehearsal 

2 


P  A  S  T  I  C  H  E 

of  a  rehearsal  of  the  screen  scene  from  2'hc  School  for 
Scandal,  which  was  sujiposed  to  be  directed  by 
Sheridan  himself.  Rather  a  comphcated  affair, 
because  Miss  LiHan  Braithwaite  was  supposed  to  be 
playing  not  Lady  Teazle  but  Mrs.  Abington  playing 
Lady  Teazle,-  Mr.  Gilbert  Hare  had  to  play  Mr. 
Parsons  playing  Sir  Peter,  and  so  forth — histrionics, 
so  to  speak,  raised  to  the  second  power.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  think  the  middle  term  tended  to  fall  out. 
It  was  easy  enough  for  the  players  to  make  them- 
selves up  after  the  originals  in  the  Garriek  Club 
picture  of  the  screen  scene,  but  how  these  originals 
spoke  or  what  their  personal  peculiarities  were,  on 
or  off  the  stage,  who  shall  now  say  ?  There  you  have 
the  difference  between  fact  and  fiction.  Lady 
Teazle  and  Sir  Peter,  having  no  existence  save  in  the 
book  of  the  play,  are  producible  from  it  at  any  time, 
as  "  real  "  as  they  ever  were,  but  Mrs.  Abington 
and  Mr.  Parsons  are  not  fixed  in  a  book,  and  their 
reality  died  with  them.  Naturally  enough  the  actual 
scene  written  by  Sheridan  "  went  "  with  very  much 
greater  force  than  the  setting  of  conversations, 
interruptions,  etc.,  in  which  it  was  embedded,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  the  one  part  had  had  the  luck 
to  be  imagined  by  Sheridan  and  the  other  had  not. 
But  as  a  pasiiclic  this  new  part,  written  round  the 
old,  seemed  to  me  on  the  whole  very  well  done  ; 
there  was  hardly  a  word  that  Sheridan  and  his 
friends  migld  not  have  said.  Just  one,  however, 
there  noticeably   was.     Mr.   Gerald  du   Maurier  (as 

3  u  2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Sheridan)  was  made  to  tell  Mr.  Leon  Quartcrmaine 
(as  Charles)  that,  in  his  laughter  at  the  discovery  of 
Lady  Teazle,  he  was  not  to  expcet  the  "  sympathy 
of  the  audienee."  That,  I  feel  sure,  was  an  ana- 
ehronism,  a  bit  of  quite  modern  theatrical  lingo. 
I  should  guess  that  it  eamc  to  us  from  the  French, 
who  are  fond  of  talking  of  a  role  sympathique.  Mr. 
du  Muurier,  if  any  one,  must  remember  his  father's 
delightful  sketch  of  English  people  shopping  in 
Normandy,  when  the  artful  shopwoman  is  cajoling 
a  foolish-faced  Englishman  with  "  le  visage  dc 
monsieur  m'est  si  sympathique."  The  Italian 
s'nnpaiico  is,  of  course,  even  more  hard- worked.  I 
felt  sure,  then,  as  I  say,  about  the  anachronism  ;  but 
I  am  quite  aware  that  it  is  never  safe  to  trust  to 
one's  instinct  in  these  matters.  It  is  by  no  means 
impossible  that  some  one  may  triumphantly  produce 
against  me  a  newspaper  or  book  of  1775  which  speaks 
of  "  the  sympathy  of  the  audience."  The  unex- 
pected in  these  cases  docs  occasionally  happen. 

And  certainly  any  one  who  has  tried  his  hand  at 
a  jmsiiche  of  a  dead  and  gone  author  will  have 
frequently  been  astonished,  not  at  the  antiquity  but 
at  tiie  modernity  of  the  style.  Language  changes 
less  rapidly  than  we  are  apt  to  suppose.  The  bad 
^^Titcrs  seem  to  get  old-fashioned  earliest — because, 
I  suppose,  they  yield  most  easily  to  ephemeral  tricks 
of  speech.  For  example,  Fanny  Burney,  who,  I 
cannot  but  think,  wrote  a  bad  style,  and  in  her  later 
books  (as  Macaulay  pointed  out)  a  kind  of  debased 

4 


PASTICHE 

Johnsonese,  is  now  decidedly  old-fashioned.  But 
Jane  Austen,  whose  style,  though  scarcely  brilliant, 
was  never  bad,  is  not.  A  modern  Mr.  Collins  would 
not  talk  of  "  elegant  females  " — but  even  then  he 
was  put  forward  as  ridiculous  for  doing  so.  Jane 
was  fond  of  "  the  chief  of  the  day  "  and  "  the  harp 
was  bringing."  These  phrases  are  passees,  but  I 
doubt  if  you  will  find  many  others. 

Our  sense  of  the  past,  in  fact,  may  illude  us. 
And  that  reminds  me  of  Henry  James's  solitary 
pasfiche,  his  posthumous  (and  fragmentary)  "  Sense 
of  the  Past."  The  "  past  "  he  deals  with  is,  roughly, 
the  Jane  Austen  period,  and  I  think  his  language 
would  very  much  have  astonished  .Jane  Austen. 
For  one  thing,  they  didn't  colloquially  emphasize 
in  her  day  as  Henry  James  makes  them  do.  I  take 
a  page  at  random  : — "  He  mustn't  be  ton  terribly 
clever  for  us,  certainly  !  We  enjoy  inuuensdy  your 
being  so  extraordinary  :  but  I'm  sure  you'll  take  it 
in  good  jiart  if  I  remind  you  that  there  is  a  limit." 
Fs  this  our  ultra-modern  Mrs.  Brookenham  speaking  ? 
No,  it  is  Mrs.  Midmorc,  somewhere  about  1820. 
To  be  more  exact,  it  is  Henry  .Tames  speaking  with 
the  emphasis  that  always  abounded  in  his  novels  and 
his  letters  and  his  talk.  Again  :  "  I  can't  keep  off 
that  strangeness  of  my  momentary  lapse."  That 
doesn't  sound  to  my  ear  a  bit  like  1S2().  Again  : 
"  It  must  have  been  one  of  your  pale  passions,  as 
you  call  'em,  truly  -so  that  even  if  her  ghost  dois 
hover  I  shan't  be  afraid  of  so  very  thin  a  shade." 

5 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Note  the  "  'em,"  the  author's  timid  little  speck  of 
antique  colour,  but  note  also  how  the  speaker  carries 
on  the  "  ghost  "  figure — in  a  way  that  is  signed 
"  Henry  James,  19 —  "  all  over.  The  fact  is,  Henry 
James,  with  his  marked,  individual,  curiously 
"  modern  ''  style,  was  the  last  man  to  express  himself 
in  an  alien  style,  particularly  the  more  simple  style 
of  an  earlier  age.  To  write  a  pure  pastiche  you  must 
begin  by  surrendering,  putting  clean  away  your 
own  personality — how  otherwise  are  you  to  take  on 
another's  ? 

I  have  no  illusions  about  the  essays  in  pastiche 
to  be  found  in  the  earlier  of  the  following  papers.  If 
they  do  not  always  fall  below  jiarody,  they  never 
rise  above  it.  Occasional  fragments  of  authentic 
text  will  be  recognized  at  a  glance.  "  These  Things 
are  but  Toves." 


AN   ARISTOTELIAN    FRAGMENT 

Ix  the  nciglibourhood  of  Wardour  Street,  where 
the  princes  of  the  film  hold  their  Court,  a  legislative 
code  for  film-making,  a  "  Poetics  "  of  the  film,  by 
some  maestro  di  color  che  sanno,  has  long  been 
yearned  for.  If  only,  they  say,  if  only  the  maestro 
himself,  the  great  Aristotle,  had  been  alive  to  write 
it  !  After  all,  kinematograph  is  Greek,  isn't  it  ?  It 
seems  to  cry  aloud,  somehow,  for  its  code  by  the 
great  Greek  authority.  Well,  they  little  knew  what 
luck  was  in  store  for  them  ! 

To-day  comes  a  startling  piece  of  news  from  the 
East.  A  certain  Major  Ferdinand  M.  Pinto,  O.B.E., 
R.E.,  whet  her  on  military  duty  or  on  furlough  the 
report  does  not  say,  has  been  sojourning  witii  the 
monks  of  Mount  Porthos,  and,  in  the  most  singidar 
manner,  has  discovered  in  the  possession  of  his 
hosts  a  precious  treasure  of  which  tluy  wrre  entin  ly 
ignorarit.  It  was  a  Greek  manuseript,  and,  as  the 
Reverend  Prior  laughingly  observed,  it  was  (Jreek 
to  them.  It  seems  that — such  is  the  lieenee  of 
modern  manners  even  in  monasteries — the  monks 
have  lately  taken  to  smoking,  and  to  using  what  in 
lay   circles  are  calleil   "  spills."      Now   on   tjie   spill 

7 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

which  the  Major  was  lighting  for  his  cigar  there 
suddenly  stared  him  in  the  face  the  words 

otiTTTff)   .\yd6(j>v  Key  It 

and  the  name  Agathon  thrilled  him  with  memories 
of  a  certain  Oxford  quad,  with  dear  "  old  Straehan  " 
annoying  the  Master  by  wondering  why  Agathon 
should  have  said  anything  so  obvious  as  that  "  it 
is  jMobable  that  many  things  should  happen  con- 
trary to  probability."  To  examine  the  spill,  all  the 
spills  collected,  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  They 
proved,  at  a  glance,  to  be  an  entirely  unknown  MS. 
of  the  "  Poetics,"'  more  complete  even  than  the 
Parisian,  and  with  new  readings  transcending  even 
the  acutest  conjectures  of  Vahlen.  But,  greatest 
find  of  all,  there  was  disclosed — though  with  imfor- 
tunate  lacuncc  caused  by  the  monks'  cigars — an 
entirely  new  chapter  inquiring  into  the  structure  of 
the  Moving  Picture  Drama.  Through  the  courtesy 
of  the  Pseudo-Hellenic  Society  I  am  favoured  with 
a  translation  of  this  chapter,  and  a  few  passages, 
which  .seemed  of  more  general  interest,  are  here 
extracted. 

"  As  we  have  said,'  the  MS.  begins,  "  it  is  a 
(juestion  whether  tragedy  is  to  be  judged  in  itself 
or  in  relation  also  to  the  audience.  But  it  is  another 
story  (aAXo?  XJyo?)  with  the  moving  pictures.  For 
it  is  not  clear  whether  they  have  an  'itself  at 
all,  or,  if  they  have,  where  this  self  is  to  be  found, 
whether  on  the  screen,  f>r  in  the  lens  of  the  camera, 


AX    ARISTOTELIAN    FRAGMENT 

or  in  tlie  head  of  the  photographic  artist.  Whereas 
there  is  no  doubt  (save  in  very  inclement  weather) 
about  tlic  audience.  They  are  to  be  judged,  then, 
solely  in  relation  to  the  audience.  And,  for  this 
reason,  they  do  not  resemble  tragedy,  whose  action, 
we  said,  must  be  whole,  consisting  of  a  beginning,  a 
middle,  and  an  end.  For  the  audience  may  arrive 
at  the  end  of  a  picture  play,  and  though,  in  due 
time,  the  beginning  will  come  round  again,  the 
audience  may  not  have  the  patience  to  wait  for  it. 
Some  audiences  prefer  to  arrive  in  the  middle  and 
to  jjrocced  to  the  end,  and  then  to  end  with  the 
beginning.  By  this  means  the  general  sense  of  con- 
fusion in  human  affairs  is  confirmed  in  the  picture 
theatre,  and  in  this  sense,  but  only  in  this  sense,  the 
picture  drama  may  be  said  to  be,  like  tragedy,  an 
imitation  of  life. 

"  Nor  can  it  be  said  of  picture  drama,  as  it  was  of 
tragedy,  that  the  element  of  plot  is  more  important 
than  the  element  of  character.  For  here  neither 
element  is  important.  The  important  element  now 
is  motion.  Any  plot  will  serve  the  picture  poet's 
purpose  (indeed  most  of  them  take  them  ready- 
made  from  those  prose  epics  known  as  '  shockers  "), 
and  any  characters  likewise  (it  will  sullice  if  these  be 
simplified  types  or  '  masks  ').  The  essence  of  the 
matter  is  that  all  should  be  kept  moving.  And  as 
moving  objects  are  best  seen  to  be  moving  when 
they  are  moving  quickly,  the  picture  poet  will  con- 
trive that  his  horses  shall  always,  as  Homer  says, 

9 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

devour  the  ground  and  his  motor  cars  be  '  all  out.' 
.  .  .  Unity  of  plot — when  there  is  a  plot — docs  not, 
as  some  persons  think,  consist  in  the  unity  of  the 
hero.  It  consists  in  the  final  dwelling  together  in 
unity  of  the  hero  and  his  bride.  Final  must  be 
understood  as  posterior  to  the  pursuit  of  the  bride 
by  other  men,  who  may  be  cither  white  or  red.  Red 
men  are  better,  as  more  unbridled  in  their  passions 
than  white.  As  yEschylus  first  introduced  a  second 
actor  in  tragedy,  so  an  American  poet,  whose  name 
is  too  barbarous  to  be  wTitten  in  Greek,  introduced 
the  red  man  in  picture  drama.  .  .  . 

"  With  regard  to  the  hero  and  his  bride,  though 
their  characters  should,  as  in  tragedy,  be  morally 
good  {xp-qa-Tu),  it  is  chicfly  necessary  that  their 
persons  should  be  kinematographically  good  or 
good  on  the  film.  F'or  at  every  peripety  of  the  action 
they  must  become  suddenly  enlarged  by  the  device 
of  the  photographer,  so  that  every  furrow  of  the 
knitted  brow  and  every  twitch  of  the  agitated 
mouth  is  shown  as  large  as  life,  if  not  larger.  It  is, 
in  fact,  by  this  photographic  enlargement  that  the 
critical  turns  of  the  action  arc  marked  and  distin- 
guished, in  the  absence  of  the  tragic  element  of 
diction.  Where  the  tragic  actor  talks  big,  the  pic- 
ture player  looks  big.  Nevertheless,  the  element  of 
diction  is  not  entirely  wanting.  Sentences  (wiiieh 
should  comprise  as  many  solecisms  as  possible)  may 
be  shown  on  the  screen,  descriptive  of  what  the 
players  are  doing  or  saying.     But  the  more  skilful 

10 


AN    ARISTOTELIAN    FRAGMENT 

players  habitually  say  somethin<,'  else  than  what  is 
thus  imputed  to  them,  thereby  giving  the  audience 
the  additional  interest  of  conjeeturing  what  they 
aetually  do  say  in  place  of  what  they  ought  to  have 
said. 

..."  Picture  poetry  is  a  more  philosophical  and 
liberal  thing  than  history  ;  for  history  expresses  the 
particular,  but  picture  poetry  the  not  too  parti- 
cular. The  particular  is,  for  example,  what  Alci- 
biades  did  or  suffered.  The  not  too  particular  is 
what  Charlie  Chaplin  did  or  suffered.  But  the 
moving  pictures  do  to  some  extent  show  actual 
happenings,  in  order  to  reassure  people  by  nature 
incredulous.  For  what  has  not  happened  we  do 
not  at  once  feel  sure  to  be  possible  ;  but  what  has 
happened  is  manifestly  possible  ;  otherwise  it  would 
not  have  happened.  On  the  wjiole,  however,  as  the 
tragic  poet  should  prefer  jirobable  im})Ossibilities  to 
improbable  possibilities,  the  picture  poet  should  go, 
as  Agathon  says,  one  better,  and  aim  at  improbable 
impossibilities."  .  .  . 


n 


MR  SHAKESPEARE  DISORDERLY 

At  the  meeting  preliminary  to  "  Warriors'  Day 
I  was  wending  my  way  along  the  eorridor  of  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane,  when  I  encountered  an 
amphibious-looking  figure  with  the  mien  of  one  of 
Mr.  W.  W.  Jacobs's  people,  but  attired  in  the  classic 
tunic  and  sandals  of  a  Greek  of  the  best  period. 
Knowing  that  the  meeting  was  to  include  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  theatrical  men,  I  taxed  him  with 
being  somebody  out  of  Orjohce  mtx  Enfers  or  La  Belle 
Ilelene.  He  said  it  was  not  a  bad  shot,  but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  a  ferryman,  "  saving  your 
honour's  reverence,  name  o'  Charon."  "  A 
ferryman  ?  "'  said  I  ;  "  then  you  nuist  be  from  the 
Upper  River,  Godstow  way."'  "  No,  sir,"  he 
answered,  "  I  ply  my  trade  on  the  Styx,  and  I've 
brought  over  a  boatful  of  our  tip-toppers — our 
intelli-gents-you-are  they  calls  'em  in  the  Elysian 
Fields — to  this  'ere  mectin'.  Precious  dry  work  it 
is,  too,  sir,"  he  added,  wijiing  his  mouth  with  the 
back  of  his  hand.  "  Where  are  they  ?  "  I  asked  in 
high  excitement.  "  In  this  'ere  box,  sir,  where  the 
management  have  allowed  them  to  sit  incog." 
"  And  who,  my  good  fellow,  are  they  ?  "     "  Well, 

12 


MR.  SHAKESPEARE  DISORDERLY 

sir,  let  mc  see  ;  thcres  Mr.  William  Shakespeare, 
one  of  the  most  pop'Iar  of  our  gents  and  the  neatest 
hand  at  nectar  puncli  with  a  toast  in  it.  Then 
there's  Mr.  David  Garrick,  little  Davy,  as  they  calls 
'im  (though  the  other  one,  'im  who's  always  a-slingin' 
stones  at  the  giants,  isn't  no  great  size,  neither),  and 
there's  'is  friend  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  a  werry 
harbitrary  cove,  and  there's  Mrs.  Siddons,  an  "oly 
terror  of  a  woman,  sir,  as  you  might  say.  Likewise, 
there's  Mr.  Sheridan  and  Mr.  Edmund  Kcan,  both 
on  'em  gents  with  a  powerful  thirst — just  like  mine 
this  blessed  mornin',  sir.''  At  this  second  reminder 
I  gave  him  wherewithal  to  slake  his  thirst,  directed 
him  to  the  bar,  and,  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight, 
slipped  noiselessly  into  the  back  of  the  box,  where  I 
hid  beiiind  the  overcoats. 

Mr.  Shakespeare  was  beckoning  Mrs.  Siddons  to 
his  side.  "  Come  hither,  good  mistress  Sal  "  (this 
to  the  majestic  Sarah,  the  Tragic  Muse  !),  "  and 
prythcc,  dearest  clnick,  sit  close,  for  'tis  a  nipping 
and  an  eager  air,  and  poor  Will's  a-cold." 

Mus.  S.— Sir,  you  are  vastly  oblecging,  but  where's 
the  chair  ? 

Dr.  Johnson. — Madam,  you  wlio  have  so  often 
occasioned  a  want  of  seats  to  other  people,  will  the 
more  easily  excuse  the  want  of  one  yourself. 

Mr.  Shakespeaue. — Marry  come  up  !  ANOuldst 
not  sit  in  my  lajj,  Sal?  'Tis  not  so  deep  as  a  well 
nor  so  wide  as  a  church  door,  but  'twill  serve. 

Mrs.    S.    {scmidalized   but   dignified). — Sir,    I    am 
1.'} 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

sensible  of  the  lionour,  but  fear  my  train  would 
incommode  the  Immortal  Bard. 

Mr.  Shakespeare. — Oh,  Immortal  Bard  be 

Mr.  Garrick  {liastily). — I  perceive,  sir,  a  stir 
among  the  company.  The  gentleman  who  is 
taking  the  chair  has  notable  eyebrows  ;  he  must 
be 

Mr.  Shakespeare. — Master  George  Robey.  I've 
heard  of  him  and  his  eyebrows. 

Mr.  G. — No,  no,  'tis  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  an  actor- 
dramatist  like  yourself,  sir. 

Mr.  Shakespeare. — Beshrew  me,  but  I  would 
hear  the  chimes  at  midnight  with  him  and  drink  a 
health  unto  his  knighthood.  (Sings.)  "  And  let  me 
the  canakin  clink,  clink,  and '' 

The  House  {indignantly). — Sh-h-h  ! 

Mr.  Shakespeare. — A  murrain  on  these  gallants  ! 
They  have  no  ear  for  a  catch  and  should  get  them  to 
a  monastery.  But  I'll  sit  like  my  grandsire,  carved 
in  alabaster.  Who's  the  young  spark,  now  speak- 
ing ? 

Dr.  J.  {shocked). — The  young  spark,  sir,  is  His 
Royal  Highness  tiie  Prince  of  Wales. 

Mr.  Sheridan. — Egad  !  This  reminds  me  of  old 
times,  but  the  young  man  is  not  a  bit  like  my  friend 
Prinny.  And  though  /  managed  Drury  Lane,  I 
never  got  Prinny  on  my  stage. 

Dr.  J. — Sir,  your  Prinny  never  had  so  good  a 
cause  to  be  there.  He  only  thought  he  fought  in 
the  wars  ;    but  this  Prince  is  a  real  cx-Service  man, 

14 


MR.  SHAKESPEARE  DISORDERLY 

pleading  for  the  cx-Service  men,  his  comrades  in 
arms.  He  has  been  a  soldier,  and  not  a  man  of  us 
in  this  box  but  wishes  he  could  say  as  much  for 
himself.  Every  man  thinks  meanly  of  himself  for 
not  having  been  a  soldier  ;  but  he  ^vill  think  less 
meanly  if  he  can  help  those  wlio  have.  That  is  the 
very  purpose  of  this  numerous  assembly. 

Mr.  Shakespeare. — Oh,  most  learned  doctor,  a 
Daniel  come  to  judgment  !  F  faith  I  am  most 
heartily  of  thy  mind,  and  would  drink  a  loving  toast 
to  the  young  Prince  and  another  to  the  ex-Service 
fellows,  and  eke  a  third  to  this — how  runs  it  ? — this 
numerous  assembly.  {Sings.)  "  And  let  me  the 
canakin  clink,  clink,  and " 

The  House  {in  a  frenzy  of  indignation). — Sh-h-h  ! 
Turn  him  out  !     {Hisses.) 

Mr.  Shakespeare.— What  !  the  "  bird  "  !  Well- 
a-day,  this  isn't  the  first  time  they've  hissed  my 
Ghost. 

Mr.  Keax. — Sir,  they've  hissed  7ne  1 

Mr.  Shakespeare. — Ha  !  say'st  thou,  honest 
Ned  !  But  thou  wast  a  jackanapes  to  let  thyself 
be  caught  with  the  Alderman's  wife  and 

Mrs.  S.  {icily). — Mr.  Shakespeare,  there  are  ladies 
present. 

Mr.  Sheridan-  {whispering  tu  Dr.  J.).—  \l\\t  what 
docs  little  Davy  here,  doctor  ?  He  has  always  been 
rcj)rcsented  as  very  saving. 

Dr.  J. — No,  sir.  Davy  is  a  liberal  man.  He  has 
given  away  more  money  than  any  man  in  England. 

15 


PASTICHK    AND     PREJUDICE 

There  may   be  a  little   \anity   mixed,   but   he  has 
shown  that  money  is  not  his  first  object. 

At  this  moment  Charon  popped  his  head  in 
at  the  door,  pulling  his  forelock,  and  said,  "  Time, 
gen'lemen,  time  !  "  The  house  was  rising  and  I 
took  the  opportunity  to  step  back,  unperceived,  into 
the  corridor.  Mr.  Shakespeare  led  the  procession 
out,  declaring  that,  as  he  had  come  in  a  galliard, 
he  must  return  in  a  coranto,  and  offering  to  dance 
it  with  Mrs.  Siddons,  who,  however,  excused  herself, 
saying  that  she  knew  no  touch  of  it,  though  she  had 
of  old  taken  great  strides  in  her  profession.  Dr. 
Johnson  turned  back,  when  half  way  out,  to  touch 
the  doorpost.  Mr.  Garrick  sallied  forth  arm-in-arm 
with  Mr.  Kean  and  Mr.  Sheridan.  "  Egad  !  " 
chuckled  Mr.  Sheridan,  "  Garrick  between  Tragedy 
and  Comedy,"  and  subsequently  caused  some  con- 
fusion by  tumbling  down  the  stairs  and  lying  helpless 
at  the  bottom.  When  the  attendants  ran  to  his 
assistance  and  asked  his  name,  he  said  he  was  Mr. 
Willjcrforcc.  As  they  emerged  under  the  portico 
the  crowd  outside  raised  a  loud  cheer,  and  Mr. 
Shakespeare  doffed  his  plumed  cap  and  bowed 
graciously  to  right  and  left  until  they  told  him  that 
the  crowd  were  cheering  the  Prince  of  Wales,  when 
he  looked  crestfallen  and  called  those  within  earshot 
"  groundlings  "'  and  "  lousy  knaves."  As  he  jumped 
into  a  taxi,  I  heard  him  direct  the  driver  to  the 
"  Mermaid,"  when  Dr.  Johnson,  running  up  and 
pufling  loudly,  cried,  "  A  tavern  chair  is  the  throne 

16 


MR.  SHAKESPEARE  DISORDERLY 

of  human  felicity.  But  the  '  Mitre  '  is  the  nearer. 
Let  us  go  there,  and  TU  have  a  frisk  with  you.'" 
And  as  the  taxi  disappeared  down  Catherine  Street, 
my  ear  caught  the  distant  strain,  "  And  let  me  the 
canakin  clink,  clink." 


17 


SIR  ROGER  AT  THE  RUSSIAN 
BALLET 

No.  1000.    Wednesday,  October  29Tn,  19 — . 

Sahare  eleganfius  quam  necesse  est  probce. 

Sallust. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Covcrley,  when  we  last 
met  together  at  the  ehib,  told  me  that  he  had  a 
great  mind  to  see  the  Museovite  daneers  with  me, 
assuring  me  at  the  same  time  that  he  had  not  been 
at  a  playhouse  these  twenty  years.  When  he  learnt 
from  me  that  these  daneers  were  to  he  sought  in 
Leieestcr  Fields,  he  asked  me  if  there  would  not  be 
some  danger  in  coming  home  late,  in  case  the 
Mohoeks  should  be  abroad.  "  Howe\er,"  says  the 
knight,  "  if  Captain  Sentry  will  make  one  with  us  to- 
morrow night,  I  will  have  my  own  eoaeh  in  readiness 
to  attend  yf)u  ;  for  John  tells  me  he  has  got  the  fore- 
wheels  mended."  Thinking  to  smoak  him,  I  whispered, 
"  You  must  have  a  care,  for  all  the  streets  in  the  West 
arc  now  up.""  but  he  was  not  to  be  daunted,  saying  he 
minded  well  when  all  the  West  Country  was  up  with 
Monmouth ;  and  the  Captain  bid  Sir  Roger  fear 
nothing,  for  that  he  had  put  on  the  same  sword  which 
he  made  use  of  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk. 

When  we  had  eon\oyed  him  in  safety  to  Leicester 
IS 


SIR  ROGER  AT  RUSSIAN   BALLET 

Fields,  and  he  had  descended  from  his  coach  at  the 
door,  he  straifrhtway  engaged  in  a  conference  with 
the  door-keeper,  who  is  a  notable  prating  gossip, 
and  stroak'd  the  page-boy  upon  the  head,  bidding 
him  be  a  good  child  and  mind  his  book.  As  soon  as 
we  were  in  our  places  my  old  friend  stood  up  and 
looked  about  him  with  that  pleasure  which  a  mind 
seasoned  with  himianity  naturall}^  feels  in  itself,  at 
the  sight  of  a  multitude  of  j)eople  who  seem  pleased 
with  one  another,  and  partake  of  the  same  common 
entertainment.  He  seemed  to  be  no  less  pleased 
with  the  gay  silks  and  satins  and  sarsenets  and 
brocades  of  the  ladies,  but  pish'd  at  the  strange 
sight  of  their  bare  backs.  "Not  so  bare,  neither,"  I 
whispered  to  him,  "for  if  you  look  at  them  through 
your  spy-glass  you  will  see  they  wear  a  little  coat  of 
paint,  which  particularity  has  gained  them  the  name 
of  Piets."  "  I  warrant  you,"  he  answered,  with  a  more 
than  ordinary  \'ehemence,  "these  naked  ones  are 
widows— widows.  Sir,  are  the  most  perverse  crea- 
tures in  the  world."  Thinking  to  humour  him,  I  said 
most  like  they  were  war  widows,  whereon  the  gofxl 
knight  lifted  his  hat  to  our  brave  fellows  who  fought 
in  the  Low  Countries,  and  offered  several  rellections 
on  the  greatness  o(  the  liritish  land  and  sea  forces, 
with  many  other  honest  prejudices  which  naturally 
cleave  to  the  heart  of  a  true  Englishman. 

Luckily,  the  Muscovites  then  began  dancing  and 
posturing  in  their  pantomime  which  they  call 
Fetrouchka  and  the  old  gcntlenian  was  wonderfully 

1«>  V  2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

attentive  to  the  antics  of  the  three  live  fantoccini. 
AViicn  the  black  fellow,  as  he  called  the  Moor,  clove 
tiie  head  of  his  rival  with  the  scimitar,  the  knight 
said  he  had  never  looked  for  such  barbarity  from  a 
fellow  who,  but  a  moment  ago,  was  iiuiocently  play- 
ing a  game  of  l)all,  like  a  child.  What  strange  dis- 
orders, he  added,  are  bred  in  the  minds  of  men 
whose  passions  are  not  regulated  by  virtue,  and  dis- 
ciplined by  reason,  "  But  ])ray,  you  that  are  a 
critic,  is  this  in  accordance  with  your  rules,  as  you 
call  them  ?  Did  your  Aristotle  allow  pity  and 
terror  to  be  moved  by  such  means  as  dancing  ?  "'  I 
answered  that  the  Greek  jjhilosopher  had  never  seen 
the  Muscovites  and  that,  in  any  case,  wc  had  the 
authority  of  Shakespeare  for  expecting  nuirder 
from  any  jealous  Moor.  "  Moreover,  these  Mus- 
covites dance  murder  as  they  dance  everything.  I 
love  to  shelter  myself  under  the  examples  of  great 
men,  and  let  me  put  you  in  mind  of  Hesiod,  who 
says,  '  The  gods  have  bestowed  fortitude  on  some 
men,  and  on  others  a  disposition  for  dancing.'  For- 
tunately the  Muscovites  have  the  more  amiable 
gift,"  The  knight,  with  the  proper  respect  of  a 
country  gentleman  for  classick  authority,  was  struck 
dumb  by  Hesiod. 

He  remained  silent  during  the  earlier  part  of 
Scheherazade  until  Karsavina,  as  the  favourite  of  the 
Sultan's  harem,  persuaded  the  Chief  Eunuch  to 
release  her  orange-tawny  favourite,  Monsieur  Mas- 
sine,  at  which  the  knight  exclaimed,  "  On  my  word, 

20 


SIR  ROGER  AT  RUSSIAN  BALLET 

a  notable  young  baggage  !  "  I  refrained  from  tell- 
ing my  innocent  friend  that  in  the  old  Arabian  tale 
these  tawny  creatures  were  apes.  He  mightily  liked 
the  Sultan's  long  beard.  "  When  I  am  walking  in 
my  gallery  in  the  country,"  says  he,  "  and  see  the 
beards  of  my  ancestors,  I  cannot  forbear  regarding 
them  as  so  many  old  patriarchs,  and  myself  as  an 
idle  smock-faced  young  fellow.  I  love  to  sec  your 
Abrahams  and  Isaacs,  as  we  have  them  in  old  pieces 
of  tapestry  with  beards  below  their  girdles.  I  sup- 
pose this  fellow,  witii  all  these  wives,  must  l)e  Solo- 
mon."' And,  his  thoughts  running  upon  that  King, 
he  said  he  kept  his  Book  of  Wisdom  by  his  bedside 
in  the  country  and  foiuid  it,  though  Apoeryi)hal, 
more  conducive  to  virtue  than  the  writings  of  Mon- 
sieur La  Rochefoucauld  or,  indeed,  of  Socrates  him- 
self, whose  life  he  had  read  at  the  end  of  the  Dic- 
tionary. Captain  Sentry,  seeing  two  or  three  wags 
who  sat  near  us  lean  with  an  attentive  ear  towards 
Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should  snioak  the 
knight,  plucked  him  by  the  elbow,  and  whispered 
something  in  his  ear  that  lasted  until  the  Sultan 
returned  to  the  harem  and  i)ut  the  ladies  and  their 
tawny  companions  to  the  sword.  The  faNourite's 
plunging  the  dagger  into  her  luart  moved  him  to 
tears,  but  he  dried  them  hastily  on  l)ethinking  liiin 
she  was  a  Mahometan,  and  asked  of  us,  on  our  way 
home,  whether  there  was  no  |)layhouse  in  London 
where  they  danced  true  Church  of  Kngland  panto- 
mimes. 

'21 


PARTRIDGE  AT      JULIUS  CESAR" 

Mr,  Jonks  ha\ing  spent  throe  hours  in  reading 
and  kissing  Sophia's  letter,  and  being  at  hist  in  a 
state  of  good  spirits,  he  agreed  to  earry  an  appoint- 
ment, whieh  he  had  before  made,  into  exeeution. 
This  was,  to  attend  Mrs.  Miller  and  her  youngest 
daughter  into  the  gallery  at  the  St.  James's  play- 
house, and  to  admit  Mr.  Partridge  as  one  of  the 
company.  For,  as  Jones  had  really  that  taste  for 
humour  Avhieh  many  affeet,  he  expected  to  enjoy 
nnieh  entertainment  in  the  criticisms  of  Partridge  ; 
from  whom  he  expected  the  simple  dictates  of 
nature,  unimproved,  indeed,  but  likewise  unadul- 
terated by  art. 

In  the  first  row,  then,  of  the  first  gallery  did  Mr. 
Jones,  Mrs.  Miller,  her  youngest  daughter,  and  Part- 
ridge take  their  places.  Partridge  inuuediatcly 
declared  it  was  the  finest  place  he  had  ever  been  in. 
When  the  first  music  was  played  he  said  it  was  a 
wonder  how  so  numy  fiddlers  could  j^lay  at  one  time 
without  putting  one  another  out. 

As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Shakesi)eares 
Julius  C(vsar,  began,  Partridge  was  all  attention, 
nor  did  he  break  silence  till  the  .scene  in  Brutus's 

22 


PARTRIDCiE  AT      .TTLIUS  C^SAR" 

orchard,  win  ii  he  asked  Jones,  "  What  season  of  the 
year  is  it.  Sir  ?  "'  Jonts  answered,  "'  Wait  bnt  a 
moment  and  you  siiall  liear  the  boy  Lueius  say  it  is 
the  l-tth  of  Mareh."  To  whieh  Partridge  rephed 
witli  a  smile,  "  Ay,  then  I  understand  why  the  boy 
was  asleej).  Had  it  been  in  apple-iiarvesting  time  I 
warrant  you  he  would  have  been  awake  and  busy 
as  soon  as  what"s-jus-nanu',  Squire  Brutus,  had 
turned  his  baek."'  And  upon  the  entreaties  of 
Portia  to  share  lirutuss  eonfidenee  he  inquired  if 
she  was  not  a  Somersetshire  weneh.  ""  For  Madam," 
said  he,  "  is  might}  like  the  housewives  in  our 
county,  who  will  plague  their  husbands  to  death 
rather  than  let  "em  keeji  a  seeret."  Nor  was  he 
satisfied  with  Ca-sar's  yielding  to  Cali)hurnia\s 
objections  against  his  going  to  the  Capitol.  '"  Ay, 
anything  to  please  your  wife,  you  old  dotard,"  said 
he  ;  "  you  n>ight  have  known  better  than  to  gi\e 
heed  to  a  silly  wonums  nightmares." 

When  they  eame  to  the  Forum  scene  and  the 
speeches  of  Brutus  and  Antony,  Partridge  sat  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  orators  and  with  his  mouth 
open.  The  same  passions  which  succeeded  each 
other  in  the  crowd  of  citizens  succeeded  likewise  in 
him.  He  was  at  first  all  for  Brutus  and  then  all  for 
Antony,  until  he  learnt  that  Casar  had  left  75 
drachmas  to  every  Roman  citizen.  '*  How  much  is 
that  in  our  English  money  ?  '  he  asked  Joins,  who 
answered  that  it  was  al)out  two  guineas.  .\t  that  he 
looked  cha})fallen,   bethinking  him    tlial,   though  a 

28 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

round  sum,  it  was  not  enough  to  warrant  the  crowd 
in  such  extravagant  rejoicing. 

"  I  begin  to  suspect,  Sir,"'  said  he  to  Jones,  "  this 
Squire  Antony  hath  not  been  above  hoodwinking 
us,  but  he  seemed  so  nuich  more  concerned  about 
the  matter  than  the  other  speaker,  Brutus,  that  I 
for  one  couldn't  help  believing  every  word  he  said. 
Yet  I  believed  the  other  one,  too,  wiicn  he  was  talk- 
ing, and  I  was  mightily  pleased  witii  what  he  said 
about  liberty  and  Britons  never  being  slaves." 
"  You  mean  Romans,"  answered  Jones,  "  not 
Britons."  "  Well,  well,""  said  Partridge,  "  I  know 
it  is  only  a  play,  but  if  I  thought  they  were  merely 
Romans,  and  not  Britons  at  heart,  I  should  not  care 
a  hang  about  'em  or  what  became  of  "em." 

To  say  the  truth,  I  believe  honest  Partridge, 
though  a  raw  country  fellow  and  ignorant  of  those 
dramatic  rules  which  learned  critics  from  the  Temple 
and  the  other  Inns  of  Court  have  introduced,  along 
with  improved  catcalls,  into  our  i)layhouses,  was 
here  uttering  the  sentiments  of  nature.  Should  we 
be  concerned  about  the  fortunes  of  those  ancient 
Romans  were  they  utter  strangers  to  us  and  did  we 
not  put  ourselves  in  their  places,  which  is  as  much 
as  to  turn  them  all  from  Romans  into  Britons  ?  To 
be  sure,  while  our  imagination  is  thus  turning  them, 
it  will  not  forbear  a  few  necessary  amendments  for 
the  sake  of  verisimilitude.  For,  to  name  only  one 
particular,  no  free  and  independent  Briton  could 
imagine  himself  bribed  by  so  paltry  a  legacy  as  a 

24 


PARTRIDGE  AT   "JULIUS  C^SAR" 

couple  of  guineas  ;  but  he  can  multiply  that  sum  in 
his  mind  until  it  shall  have  reached  the  nuich  more 
considerable  amount  which  he  will  consent  to  take 
for  his  vote  at  a  Westminster  election  ;  and  thus 
honour  will  be  satisfied.  And  the  critics  aforesaid 
will  then  be  able  to  point  out  to  us  the  advantages 
of  British  over  Roman  liberty,  being  attended  not 
only  with  the  proud  privileges  of  our  great  and 
glorious  Constitution,  but  also  with  a  higher  emolu- 
ment. 

Mr.  Jones  would  doubtless  have  made  these 
reflections  to  himself  had  he  not,  while  Partridge 
was  still  speaking,  been  distracted  by  the  sudden 
appearance  in  an  opposite  box  of  Lady  Bcllaston 
and  Sophia.  As  he  had  only  left  her  ladyship  that 
very  afternoon,  after  a  conversation  of  so  private  a 
nature  that  it  must  on  no  account  be  communi- 
cated to  the  reader,  he  would  iiavc  disregarded  the 
imperious  signals  which  she  forthwith  began  making 
to  him  with  her  fan  ;  but  the  truth  is,  whatever 
reluctance  he  may  have  felt  to  rejoin  her  ladyship 
at  that  moment  was  overborne  by  his  eagerness  to 
approach  the  amiable  Sophia,  though  he  turned  pale 
and  iiis  knees  trembltd  at  the  risk  of  that  approach 
in  circumstances  so  dangerous.  As  soon  as  he  had 
recovered  his  composure  he  hastened  to  obey  her 
ladyships  commands,  but  on  his  entry  into  the  box 
his  spirits  were  again  confoimded  by  the  evident 
agitation  of  Sophia,  and,  seizing  her  hand,  he  stam- 
mered,   "  Madam,    I ."      "  lloity,   toity  1      Mr. 

25 


PA  STIC  HP:    AM)    PR  EJ  I'D  ICE 

Jones,"  cried  Lady  Bellaston  ;  "  do  you  salute  a 
chit  of  a  rr'irl  before  you  take  notice  of  a  dowager  ? 
Arc  these  the  new  manners  among  people  of  fashion  ? 
It  is  lucky  for  my  heart  that  I  can  call  myself  a 
dowager,  for  I  vow  to-night  you  look  like  a  veritable 
Adonis,  and,"  she  added  in  a  whisper  too  low  to  be 
heard  by  Sophia,  "  your  Venus  adores  you  more 
macll\'  than  ever,  you  wicked  wretch.** 

Jones  was  ready  to  sink  with  fear.  He  sat  kick- 
ing his  heels,  playing  with  his  fingers,  and  looking 
more  like  a  fool,  if  it  be  possible,  than  a  young  booby 
squire  when  he  is  at  Mrst  introduced  into  a  polite 
assembly.  He  began,  however,  now  to  recover  him- 
self;  and  taking  a  hint  from  the  behaviour  of  Lady 
Bellaston,  who,  he  saw,  did  not  intend  openly  to 
claim  any  close  acquaintance  with  him,  he  resolved 
as  entirely  to  affect  the  stranger  on  his  part.  Accord- 
ingh',  he  leaned  over  to  Soi)hia,  who  was  staring 
hard  at  the  stage,  and  asked  her  if  she  enjoyed  the 
performance.  "  Pray,  don't  tease  Miss  Western 
with  your  ei\ilities,'*  interrupted  Lady  Bellaston, 
"  for  you  must  know  the  child  hath  lost  her  heart 
this  night  to  that  raxishing  fellow  Ainlev,  though  I 
tell  her  to  my  certain  knowledge  he  is  a  husljand 
already,  and,  what  is  more,  a  father.  These  country 
girls  have  nothing  but  sweethearts  in  their  heads." 
*  Upon  my  honour,  madam,"  cried  Sophia,  "  your 
ladyship  injures  me."  "  Not  1,  miss,  indeed," 
replied  her  ladyship  tartly,  "  and  if  you  want  a 
sweetheart,  have  you  not  one  of  the  most  gallant 

26 


PARTRIDGE  AT  -JULIUS  C\ESAR  ' 

young  fellows  about  town  ready  to  your  hand  in 
Lord  Fellamar  ?  You  nuist  be  an  arrant  mad 
woman  to  refuse  him."'  Sophia  was  visibly  too  mucii 
confounded  to  make  any  observations,  and  again 
turned  towards  the  stage,  Lady  Bellaston  taking  the 
opportunity  to  dart  languishing  glances  at  Jones 
behind  her  back  and  to  scjueezc  his  hand  ;  in  short, 
to  practise  the  behaviour  customary  with  women  of 
fashion  who  desire  to  signify  their  sentiments  for  a 
gentleman  without  expressing  them  in  actual 
speech ;  when  Jones,  who  saw  the  agitation  of 
Sophias  mind,  resolved  to  take  the  only  method  of 
relieving  her,  which  was  by  retiring.  This  he  did,  as 
Brutus  was  rushing  upon  his  own  sword  ;  and  j)oor 
Jones  almost  wished  the  sword  might  spit  him,  too, 
in  his  rage  and  despair  at  what  her  ladyship  had 
maliciously  insinuated  about  Sopliia  and  Mr. 
Ainley. 


27 


DR.    JOHNSON    AT    THE    STADIUM 

I  AM  now  to  record  a  curious  incident  in  Dr. 
Johnson's  life,  which  fell  under  my  own  observation  ; 
of  which  2)ars  magna  fui,  and  which  I  am  persuaded 
will,  with  the  liberal-minded,  be  in  no  way  to  his 
discredit. 

When  I  was  a  boy  in  the  N'ear  1745  I  wore  a  white 
cockade  and  prayed  for  Kin^  James,  till  one  of  my 
uncles  gave  me  a  shilling  on  condition  that  I  should 
pray  for  King  George,  which  I  accordingly  did. 
This  uncle  was  General  Cochran  ;  and  it  was  with 
natural  gratification  that  I  received  from  another 
member  of  that  family,  Mr.  Charles  Cochran,  a 
more  valuable  present  than  a  shilling,  that  is  to 
say,  an  invitation  to  witness  the  Great  Fight  at  the 
Stadium  and  to  bring  with  me  a  friepd.  "  Pray," 
said  I,  "  let  us  have  Dr.  Johnson."  Mr.  Cochran, 
who  is  much  more  modest  than  our  other  great 
theatre-manager,  Mr.  Garrick,  feared  that  Dr. 
Johnson  could  hardly  be  prevailed  upon  to  conde- 
scend. "  Come,"  said  I,  "  if  you'll  kt  me  negotiate 
for  you,  I  will  be  answerable  that  all  shall  go  well." 

I  had  not  forgotten  Mrs.  Thrale's  relation  (which 
she  afterwards  printed  in  her  "  Anecdotes  ")  that 

28 


DR.    JOHNSON    AT    THE    STADIUM 

"  Mr.  Johnson  was  very  conversant  in  the  art  of 
attack  and  defence  by  boxing,  which  science  he  had 
learned  from  his  uncle  Andrew,  I  believe  ;  and  I 
have  heard  him  discourse  upon  the  age  when  people 
were  received,  and  when  rejected,  in  the  schools 
once  held  for  that  brutal  amusement,  much  to  the 
admiration  of  those  who  had  no  expectation  of  his 
skill  in  such  matters,  from  the  sight  of  a  figure  which 
precluded  all  possibility  of  personal  prowess."  This 
lively  lady  was,  however,  too  ready  to  deviate  from 
exact  authenticity  of  narration  ;  and,  further,  I 
reflected  that,  whatever  the  propensities  of  his  youth, 
he  who  had  now  risen  to  be  called  by  Dr.  Smollett 
the  Great  Cham  of  literature  might  well  be  affronted 
if  asked  to  countenance  a  prize-fight. 

Notwithstanding  the  high  veneration  which  I 
entertained  for  him,  I  was  sensible  that  he  was 
sometimes  a  little  actuated  by  the  spirit  of  contra- 
diction, and  by  means  of  that  I  hoped  I  should  gain 
my  i)oint.  I  therefore,  while  we  were  sitting  quietly 
by  ourselves  at  his  house  in  an  evening,  took  occasion 
to  open  my  plan  thus  : — "  Mr.  Cochran,  sir,  sends 
his  respectful  comj)limcnts  to  you,  and  would  be 
happy  if  you  would  do  him  the  honour  to  visit  his 
entertainment  at  the  Stadium  on  Tiiursday  next  ?  " 
Johnson. — "  Sir,  I  am  ul)liged  to  Mr.  Coeliran. 
I  will  go "  IJoswELL. — "  Provided,  sir,  I  sup- 
pose, that  the  entertainment  is  of  a  kind  agreeable 
to  you  ?  "  Johnson. — "  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 
What  do  you  take  me  for  ?     Do  you  tiiink  I  am  so 

29 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

ignorant  of  the  world  as  to  imagine  that  I  am  to 
prescribe  to  a  gentleman  what  kind  of  entertainment 
he  is  to  offer  his  friends  ?  "  Boswell. — "  But  if  it 
were  a  prize-fight  ?  "  Joiinsox. — "  Well,  sir,  and 
what  then  ?  "'  Boswell. — "  It  might  bring  queer 
eompany.''  Johnson. — "  My  dear  friend,  let  us 
have  no  more  of  this.  I  am  sorry  to  be  angry  with 
you  ;  but  really  it  is  treating  me  strangely  to  talk  to 
me  as  if  I  could  not  meet  any  company  whatever 
occasionally, "     Thus  I  secured  liiin. 

As  it  proved,  however,  whctiier  by  good  luck 
or  by  the  forethought  of  the  ingenious  Mr.  Cochran, 
Dr.  JohiiS(^n  could  not  have  found  himself  in  better 
company  than  that  gathered  round  hinj  in  Block  H 
at  the  Stadium.  There  were  many  members  of  the 
Literary  Club,  among  them  Mr.  Beauclerk,  Mr. 
Burke,  Mr.  Garriek,  Mr.  Gibbon,  Sir  Joshiui  Rey- 
nolds, and  Mr.  R.  B.  Sheridan.  A  gentleman 
present,  who  had  been  dining  at  the  Duke  of 
Montrose's,  where  the  bottle  had  been  circulated 
pretty  freelj',  was  rash  enough  to  rally  Dr.  Johnson 
about  his  Uncle  Andrew,  suggesting  that  his  uncle's 
nej)lu  \v  might  now  take  the  opportunity  of  exhibiting 
his  prowess  in  the  ring.  Johnson. — "  Sir,  to  be 
facetious,  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  indecent.  I  am 
not  for  tapj)ing  any  mans  claret,  but  we  see  that  thou 
hast  already  tapped  his  Grace's."  Burke. — "  It  is 
remarkable  how  little  gore  is  ever  shed  in  these 
contests.  Here  have  we  been  for  half  an  hour 
watching — let    me    see,    what   are    their    names  ? — 

30 


DR.    JOHNSON    AT    THE    STADIUM 

Eddie  Feathers  and  Gus  Platts — and  not  even  a 
bleeding  nose  between  them/'  Reynolds. — "  In  a 
previons  contest  one  boxer  knocked  the  other's 
teeth  out."  Sheridan. — "  Yes,  but  they  were  false 
teeth.' 

At  this  moment  the  talk  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  the  Prince.  As  His  Highness  passed  Dr. 
Johnson,  my  revered  friend  made  an  obeisance 
which  was  an  even  more  studied  act  of  homage  than 
his  famous  bow  to  the  Arehbislio])  of  York  ;  and  he 
subsequently  joined  in  singing  "  For  he's  a  jolly 
good  fellow "  with  the  most  loyal  enthusiasm, 
relocating  the  word  "  fe-ellow  "  over  and  over  again, 
doubtless  because  it  was  the  only  one  he  knew. 
("  Like  a  word  in  a  catch,''  Bcauclcrk  whispered.) 
I  am  sorry  that  I  did  not  take  note  of  an  eUxiucnt 
argument  in  which  he  proceeded  to  maintain  that  the 
situation  of  Prince  of  Wales  was  the  hajopiest  of  any 
person's  in  the  kingdom,  even  beyond  that  of  the 
Sovereign. 

But  there  was  still  no  sign  of  Heekitt  and  C'ar- 
|)entier,  the  heroes  of  the  evening,  and  the  eonipanv 
became  a  little  weary  of  the  jH-eliniinary  contests. 
\  hush  fell  upon  the  assembly,  and  many  glanced 
furtively  towards  the  alley  down  which  the  cham- 
pions were  to  approach.  (iinnoN. — ''  \\V  are  un- 
happy because  wc  arc  ke|)t  waiting.  '  Man  never  is, 
but  always  to  be,  blest.'  "  Johnson. — "  And  \\v 
arc  awaiting  wc  know  not  what.  To  the  impatience 
of  expectation  is  added  the  discpiiet  of  the  unknown.  " 

81 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Garrick  {playing  round  his  old  friend  zvith  a  fond 
vivacity). — "  My  dear  sir,  men  arc  naturally  a  little 
restless,  when  they  have  backed  Beckett  at  70  to 
•iO."  Reynolds. — "  But,  see,  the  lights  of  the 
kinematographers  "  (we  were  all  abashed  by  the 
word  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  Lexicographer) 
"  arc  brighter  than  ever.  I  observe  all  the  con- 
testants take  care  to  smile  under  them."  Sheridan. 
— "  When  they  do  agree,  their  unanimity  is  wonder- 
ful." Johnson'. — "  Among  the  anfractuosities  of 
the  human  mind,  I  know  not  if  it  may  not  be  one, 
that  there  is  a  morbid  longing  to  attitudinize  in  the 
*  moving  ))ieturcs.'  " 

But  at  length  Beckett  and  Carpentier  made  their 
triumphal  entry.  Beckett  first,  quietly  smiling, 
with  eyes  cast  down,  Carpentier  debonair  and  lightly 
saluting  the  crowd  with  an  elegant  wave  of  the  hand. 
After  the  pair  had  stripped  and  Dr.  Johnson  had 
{)ointed  out  that  "  the  tenuity,  the  thin  part  "  in 
Carpentier's  frame  indicated  greater  lightness,  if 
Beckett's  girth  promised  more  solid  resistance, 
Mr.  Angle  invited  the  company  to  preserve  silence 
during  the  rounds  and  to  abstain  from  smoking. 
To  add  a  last  touch  to  the  solemnity  of  the  moment, 
Carpenticr's  supernumerary  henchmen  (some  six  or 
eight,  over  and  above  his  trainer  and  seconds)  came 
and  knelt  by  us,  in  single  file,  in  the  alley  between 
Block  H  and  Block  E,  as  though  at  worship. 

NN'liat  then  happened,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
all  the  world  now  knows,  and  knows  rather  better 

82 


DR.    JOHNSON    AT    THE   STADIUM 

than  I  knew  myself  at  the  moment,  for  I  saw 
Beckett  lying  on  his  face  in  the  ring  without  clearly 
distinguishing  tlie  decisive  blow.  While  Carpcnticr 
was  being  carried  round  the  ring  on  the  shoulders 
of  his  friends,  being  kissed  first  by  his  trainer  and 
then  by  ladies  obligingly  held  up  to  the  ring  for  the 
amiable  purpose,  I  confess  that  I  watched  Beckett, 
and  was  pleased  to  see  he  had  successfully  resumed 
h'S  quiet  smile.  As  I  carried  my  revered  friend 
home  to  Bolt  Court  in  a  taximetric  cabriolet,  I 
remarked  to  him  that  Beckett's  defeat  was  a  blow 
to  our  patriotic  pride,  whereupon  he  suddenly 
uttered,  in  a  strong,  determined  tone,  an  apophthegm 
at  which  many  will  start : — "  Patriotism  is  the  last 
refuge  of  a  scoundrel  !  "  "  And  yet,"  said  Beau- 
clerk,  when  I  told  him  of  this  later,  "  he  had  not  been 
kissed  by  Curpcntier." 


88 


MY    UNCLE    TOBY    PUZZLED 

"  'Tis  a  pity,"  cried  my  father,  one  winter's  night, 
after  reading  the  account  of  the  Shakespeare 
Memorial  meeting — "  'tis  a  pity,"  cried  my  father, 
putting  my  mother's  thread-paper  into  the  news- 
paper for  a  mark  as  he  spoke, — "  that  truth,  brother 
Tob)',  should  shut  herself  up  in  such  impregnable 
fastnesses,  and  be  so  obstinate  as  to  surrender  her- 
self up  sometimes  only  upon  the  closest  siege." 

The  word  siege,  like  a  talismanic  power,  in  my 
father's  metaphor,  wafting  back  my  uncle  Toby's 
fancy,  quick  as  a  note  could  follow  the  touch,  he 
opened  his  ears. 

"  And  there  was  nothing  to  shame  them  in  the 
truth,  neither,"  said  my  father,  "  seeing  that  they 
had  many  thousands  of  pounds  to  their  credit. 
How  could  a  bishop  think  there  was  danger  in 
telling  it  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  us  !  Mr.  Shandy,"  cried  my  mother, 
"  what  is  all  this  story  about  ?  " 

"  About  Shakespeare,  my  dear,"  said  my  father. 

"  He  has  been  dead  a  hundred  years  ago,"  replied 
my  mother. 

My  uncle  Toby,  who  was  no  chrcuologer,  whistled 
"  Lillibullero." 

84 


MY    UNCLE    TOBY    PUZZLED 

"  By  all  that's  good  and  great !  ma'am,"  cried  my 
father,  taking  the  oath  out  of  Ernulphus's  digest, 
"  of  course.  If  it  was  not  for  the  aids  of  philosophy, 
which  befriend  one  so  much  as  they  do,  you  would 
put  a  man  beside  all  temper.  He  is  as  dead  as  a 
doornail,  and  they  are  thinking  of  building  a  theatre 
to  honour  his  memory." 

"  And  why  should  they  not,  Mr.  Shandy  ?  "  said 
my  mother. 

"  To  be  sure,  there's  no  reason  why,"  replied  my 
father,  "  save  that  they  haven't  enough  money  left 
over  after  buying  a  plot  of  land  in  Gowcr  Street  to 
build  upon." 

Corporal  Trim  touclied  his  Montero-cap  and 
looked  hard  at  my  uncle  Toby,  "  If  I  durst  pre- 
sume," said  he,  "  to  give  your  honour  my  advice, 
and  speak  my  ojnnion  in  this  matter."  "  Thou  art 
welcome.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby.  "  Why  then," 
repHcd  Trim,  "  I  think,  with  humble  submission  to 
your  honour's  better  judgment,  I  think  that  had  we 
but  a  rood  or  a  rood  and  a  half  of  this  ground  to  do 
what  we  pleased  witli,  1  would  make  fortifications 
for  you  something  like  a  tansy,  with  all  their  bat- 
teries, saps,  ditches,  und  ])alisadoes,  that  it  should 
be  worth  all  the  world's  riding  twenty  miles  to  go 
and  see  it." 

"  Then  thou  wouldst  have,  Trim,"  said  my  father, 
"  to  palisado  the  Y.M.C.A." 

"  I  never  understood  rightly  the  meaning  of 
that  word,"  suid  my  unelr  Toby,  "  und   I  am  sure 

85  D  2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

nothing  of  that  name  was  known  to  our  armies  in 
Flanders." 

"  'Tis  an  association  of  Christian  young  men," 
repHed  my  father,  "  who  for  the  present  hold  the 
Shakespeare  Memorialists'  ground  in  Gower  Street." 
'Twas  no  inconsistent  part  of  my  uncle  Toby's 
character  that  he  feared  God  and  reverenced 
religion.  So  the  moment  my  father  finished  his 
remark  my  uncle  Toby  fell  a- whistling  "  Lilli- 
bullero  "  with  more  zeal  (though  more  out  of  tune) 
than  usual. 

"  And  the  money  these  Christian  youths  pay  for 
rents,"  continued  my  father,  "  is  to  be  used  to  main- 
tain a  company  of  strolling  players  "  [Here  my 
uncle  Toby,  throwing  back  his  head,  gave  a  mons- 
trous, long,  loud  whew-w-w.],  "  who  are  to  go  up 
and  down  the  country  showing  the  plays  of  Shake- 
speare. Up  and  down,  and  that,  by  the  way,  is  how 
their  curtain  went  on  twenty-two  occasions  in  Romeo 
and  Jidiety 

"  \N'ho  says  so  ?  "  asked  my  uncle  Toby. 

"  A  parson,"  replied  my  father. 

"  Had  he  been  a  soldier,"  said  my  imcle,  "  he 
would  never  have  told  such  a  taradiddle.  He  would 
have  kno^vn  that  the  curtain  is  that  part  of  the  wall 
or  rampart  which  lies  between  the  two  bastions,  and 
joins  them." 

"  By  the  mother  who  bore  us  I  brother  Toby," 
quoth  my  father,  "  you  would  provoke  a  saint. 
Hero  have  you  got  us,  I  know  not  how,  souse  into 

86 


MY    UNCLE    TOBY    PUZZLED 

the  middle  of  tlie  old  subject  again.    We  are  speak- 
ing of  Shakespeare  and  not  of  fortifications." 

"  Was  Shakespeare  a  soldier,  Mr.  Shandy,  or  a 
young  men's  Christian  ?  "  said  my  mother,  who  had 
lost  her  way  in  the  argimient. 

"  Neither  one  nor  t'other,  my  dear,"  replied  my 
father  (my  uncle  Toby  softly  whistled  "  Lilli- 
bullero  ")  ;    "  he  was  a  ^^Titer  of  plays." 

"  They  are  foolish  things,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Sometimes,"  replied  my  father,  "  but  you  have 
not  seen  Shakespeare's,  Mrs.  Shandy.  And  it  is 
for  the  like  of  you,  I  tell  you  point-blank " 

As  my  father  pronounced  the  word  point-blank 
my  uncle  Toby  rose  up  to  say  something  upon  pro- 
jectiles, but  my  father  continued  : — 

"  It  is  for  the  like  of  you  that  these  Shakespeare 
Memorialists  are  sending  their  strolling  players 
around  the  country,  to  set  the  goodwives  wondering 
about  Shakespeare,  as  they  wondered  about  Diego's 
nose  in  the  tale  of  the  learned  Ilafen  Slawken- 
bergius." 

"  Surely  the  wonderful  nose  was  Cyrano's  ?  " 
said  my  mother.  "  Cyrano's  or  Diego's,  'tis  all  one," 
cried  my  father  in  a  passion.  "  Zooks  !  Cannot  a 
man  use  a  plain  analogy  but  his  wife  nuist  interrupt 
him  with  her  focjjish  questions  about  it  ?  May  the 
eternal  curse  of  all  the  devils  in " 

"  Our  armies  swore  terribly  in  Flanders,"  cried 
my  uncle  Toby,  "  but  nothing  to  this." 

"  As  you  please,  Mr.  Shandy,"  said  my  mother. 
87 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

"  Where  was  I  ?  "  said  my  father,  in  some  con- 
fusion, and  letting  his  hand  fall  upon  my  uncle 
Toby's  shoulder  in  sign  of  repentance  for  his  violent 
cursing. 

"  You  was  at  Slawkenbergius,"  replied  my  uncle 
Toby. 

"  No,  no,  brother,  Shakespeare,  I  was  speaking 
of  Shakespeare,  and  how  they  were  going  to  carry 
him  round  the  country  because  they  had  not  money 
enough  to  build  a  theatre  for  him  in  London." 

"  But  could  they  not  hire  one  ?  "  said  my  nnc\e 
Toby. 

"  No,  for  my  Lord  Lytton  said  that  would  be  too 
speculative  a  venture." 

"  'Tis  a  mighty  strange  business,"  said  my  uncle, 
in  much  perplexity.  "  They  buy  their  land,  as  I 
understand  it,  brother,  to  build  a  house  for  Shake- 
speare in  London,  but  lease  it  for  a  house  for  yoimg 
Christians  instead,  and  spend  their  money  on  send- 
ing Shakespeare  packing  out  of  London." 

"  'Tis  all  the  faidt  of  the  Londoners,"  replied  my 
father.  "  They  have  no  soul  for  Shakespeare,  and 
for  that  matter,  as  I  believe,  no  soul  at  all." 

"  A  Londoner  has  no  soul,  an'  j^lcase  your  honour," 
whispered  Corporal  Trim  doubtingly,  and  touching 
his  Montero-cap  to  my  uncle. 

"  I  am  not  much  versed,  Corporal,"  quoth  my 
uncle  Toby,  "  in  things  of  that  kind  ;  but  I  suppose 
God  would  not  leave  him  without  one,  any  more 
than  thee  or  mc." 

88 


LADY  CATHERINE  AND  MR.  COLLINS 

EuzABETH  and  Charlotte  were  seated  one  morning 
in  the  parlour  at  Hunsford  parsonage,  enjoying  the 
prospect  of  Rosings  from  the  front  window,  and 
Mr.  Collins  was  working  in  his  garden,  which  was 
one  of  his  most  respectable  pleasures,  when  the 
peace  of  the  household  was  suspended  by  the  arrival 
of  a  letter  from  London  : — 

"  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane, 

"  London,  December,  19 — . 
"  Dear  Cousin  William, — We  have  long  neg- 
lected to  maintain  a  commerce  of  letters,  but  I  have 
learned  through  the  public  jirints  of  your  recent 
union  with  an  elegant  female  from  Hertfordshire 
and  desire  to  tender  you  and  your  lady  my  respects 
in  what  I  trust  will  prove  an  agreeable  form.  I  am 
directing  an  entertainnu-ut  at  this  theatre,  which 
is  designed  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  general 
Christmas  rejoicings,  and,  you  may  rest  assured, 
in  no  way  offends  the  jirinciples  of  the  Ciuireh 
which  you  adorn.  Will  you  not  honour  it  by  your 
presence  and  thus  confer  an  innocent  enjoyment 
upon  your  lady  ?     In  that  hope,   I  enclose  a  box 

89 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

ticket    for    the    pantomime    on    Monday    se'nnight 
and  remain  you  well-wisher  and  cousin, 

"  Arthur  Collins." 

Smiling  to  herself,  Elizabeth  reflected  that  the 
two  Messrs.  Collins  might  certainly  call  cousins  in 
epistolary  composition,  while  Charlotte  anxiously 
inquired  if  the  proposal  had  her  William's  approval. 

"  I  am  by  no  means  of  opinion,"  said  he,  "  that 
an  entertainment  of  this  kind,  given  by  a  man  of 
character,  who  is  also  my  own  second  cousin,  to 
respectable  people,  can  have  any  evil  tendency  ; 
but,  before  accepting  the  invitation,  it  is,  of  course, 
proper  that  I  should  seek  the  countenance  of  Lady 
Catherine  dc  Bourgh."  Accordingly,  he  lost  no 
time  in  making  his  way  to  Rosings. 

Lady  Catherine,  who  chanced  to  be  meditating 
that  very  morning  on  a  visit  to  London  for  the 
purchase  of  a  new  bonnet  and  pelerine,  was  all 
affability  and  condescension. 

"To  be  sure,  you  will  go,  Mr.  CoUins,"  said  her 
ladyship.  "  I  advise  you  to  accept  the  invitation 
without  delay.  It  is  the  duty  of  a  clergyman  of  your 
station  to  refine  and  improve  such  entertainments  by 
his  presence.  Nay,"  she  added,  "  Sir  Lewis  highly 
approved  them  and  /  myself  will  go  with  you."  Mr. 
Collins  was  overwhelmed  by  civility  far  beyond  his 
ex})ectations,  and  hurried  away  to  prepare  Charlotte 
and  Elizabeth  for  this  splendid  addition  to  their 
party. 

40 


LADY  CATHERINE  AND  MR.  COLLINS 

Early  on  the  Monday  se'nnight  they  set  out  for 
London  in  one  of  her  ladyship's  carriages,  for,  as 
Mr.  Collins  took  the  opportunity  of  remarking,  she 
had  several,  dra^vn  by  four  post-horses,  whieh  they 
changed  at  the  "  Bell  "  at  Bromley.  On  the  way 
her  ladyship  examined  the  young  ladies'  knotting- 
work  and  advised  them  to  do  it  differently,  instructed 
Elizabeth  in  the  hiunility  of  deportment  appropriate 
to  the  front  seat  of  a  carriage,  and  determined  what 
the  weather  was  to  be  to-morrow. 

Wlien  they  were  at  last  arrived  and  seated  in 
their  box  Lady  Catherine  approved  the  spacious 
dignity  of  the  baronial  hall,  which,  she  said,  reminded 
her  of  the  great  gallery  at  Pemberley,  but  was 
shocked  at  the  familiarities  which  passed  between 
the  Baron  and  Baroness  Beauxchamps  and  their 
page-boy.  "  These  foreign  nobles,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  adventurers,  I  daresay  !  It  was  Sir  Lewis's 
opinion  that  all  foreigners  were  adventurers.  No 
English  baron,  it  is  certain,  would  talk  so  familiarly 
to  a  common  domestic,  a  person  of  inferior  birth, 
and  of  no  importance  in  the  world.  Honour, 
decorum,  jirudencc,  nay,  interest,  forbid  it.  With 
such  manners,  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  domestic 
arrangements  are  in  disorder,  the  very  stair-carpet 
unfastened,  and  a  machine  for  cleaning  knives 
actually  brought  into  a  reception  room  !  See,  they 
cannot  even  lay  a  table-cloth  !  "  And  her  ladyshi[) 
advised  Charlotte  on  the  proper  way  of  laying  table- 
cloths, especially  in  clergymen's  families. 

41 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

After  a  song  of  Miss  Florence  Smithson's  Charlotte 
talked  in  a  low  tone  with  Elizabeth,  and  her  ladyship 
called  out : — "  What  is  that  you  are  saying,  Mrs. 
Collins  ?  What  is  it  you  are  talking  of  ?  What  arc 
you  telling  Miss  Bennet  ?     Let  me  hear  what  it  is." 

"  We  arc  speaking  of  musie,  madam,"  said 
Charlotte. 

"  Of  musie  !  Then  pray  speak  aloud.  It  is  of 
all  subjects  my  delight.  I  nnist  have  my  share  in 
the  conversation,  if  you  are  speaking  of  music. 
There  are  few  people  in  England,  I  suppose,  who  have 
more  true  enjoyment  of  music  than  myself,  or  a 
better  natural  taste.  If  I  had  ever  learnt,  I  should 
have  been  a  great  proficient." 

When  Cinderella  set  out  for  the  ball  in  her  eoach- 
and-six  with  a  whole  train  of  running-footmen  Lady 
Catherine  signified  her  approbation.  "  Yoimg  women 
should  always  be  properly  guarded  and  attended, 
according  to  their  situation  in  life.  When  my 
niece  Georgiana  went  to  Ramsgate  last  simimer,  I 
made  a  point  of  her  having  two  men-servants  go 
with  her.  I  am  excessively  attentive  to  all  those 
things." 

But  now  they  were  at  the  ball,  and  the  box  party 
was  all  attention.  The  Prince,  dignified  and  a  little 
stiff,  reminded  Eliziibeth  of  Mr.  Darcy.  But  guests 
so  strange  as  Mutt  and  Jeff,  she  thought,  would 
never  be  allowed  to  pollute  the  shades  of  Pemberley. 
Mr.  Collinss  usually  cold  composure  forsook  him 
at  the  sight  of  the  Baroness  playing  cards  with  the 

42 


LADY  CATHERINE  AND  MR.  COLLINS 

Baron  on  one  of  her  paniers  as  a  table,  and  felt  it 
his  duty  to  apologize  to  Lady  Catherine  for  the 
unseemly  incident.  "  If  your  ladyship  will  warrant 
me,"  he  began,  "  I  will  point  out  to  my  cousin  that 
neither  a  person  of  your  high  station  nor  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England  ought  to  be  asked  to  witness 
this  licentiousness  of  behaviour."  "  And  advise 
him,"  said  her  ladyship,  "  on  the  authority  of  Lady 
Catherine  de  Bourgh,  that  paniers  were  never  used 
for  this  disgraceful  purpose.  There  is  no  one  in 
England  who  knows  more  about  paniers  than  myself, 
for  my  grandmother.  Lady  Anne,  wore  them,  and 
some  day  Mrs.  Jennings,  the  housekeeper,  shall 
show  tium  to  Miss  Bennet,"  for  Elizabeth  coiild  not 
forbear  a  smile,  "  at  Rosings." 

The  party  retired  early,  for  Elizabeth  had  to  be 
conveyed  to  her  imclc's  as  far  as  Graccchureh  Street, 
and  Lady  Catherine  desired  the  interval  of  a  long 
night  before  choosing  her  new  bonnet.  It  was  not 
until  Mr,  Collins  was  once  more  in  his  ])arsonagc 
that  he  sent  his  cousin  an  acknowledgment  of  the 
entertainment  afforded  at  Drury  Lane,  as  follows  : — 

"  HuNSFOui),  near  Westerham,  Kent, 

"  January,  19 — . 
"  Dear  Sir, — We  withdrew  from  your  Ciiristmas 
cntertaimnent  on  Monday  last  with  mingled  feelings 
of  gratification  and  reprobation.  When  I  say  '  we  ' 
I  should  tell  you  that  my  Ciiarlotte  and  I  not  only 
brought  with  us  a  Miss  Elizabeth  Bennet,  one  of 

48 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

the  friends  of  her  maiden  state,  but  were  honoured 
by  the  company  of  the  Right  Honourable  Lady 
Catherine  dc  Bourgh,  widow  of  Sir  Lewis  de  Bourgh, 
whose  bounty  and  benefieence  have,  as  you  know, 
preferred  me  to  the  vahiablc  rectory  of  this  parish, 
where  it  shall  be  my  earnest  endeavour  to  demean 
myself  with  grateful  respect  towards  her  ladyship, 
and  be  ever  ready  to  perform  those  rites  and  cere- 
monies which  arc  instituted  by  the  Church  of 
England.  It  is  as  a  clergyman  that  I  feel  it  my  duty 
to  warn  you  against  the  sinful  game  of  cards 
exhibited  in  the  scene  of  the  Prince's  ball.  If  it 
had  been  family  whist,  I  could  have  excused  it,  for 
there  can  be  little  harm  in  whist,  at  least  among 
players  who  are  not  in  such  circumstances  as  to 
make  five  shillings  any  object.  But  the  Baroness 
Beauxchamps  is  manifestly  engaged  in  a  game  of 
sheer  chance,  if  not  of  downright  cheating.  The 
admission  of  this  incident  to  your  stage  cannot  but 
have  proceeded,  you  must  allow  me  to  tell  you, 
from  a  faulty  degree  of  indulgence.  And  I  am  to 
add,  on  the  high  authority  of  Lady  Catherine, 
probably  the  highest  on  this  as  on  many  other 
subjects,  that  there  is  no  instance  on  record  of  the 
paniers  once  worn  by  ladies  being  used  as  card- 
tables.  With  respectful  compliments  to  your  lady 
and  family, 

"  I  remain,  dear  sir,  your  cousin, 

"  William  Collins." 


44 


MR.    PICKWICK    AT    THE    PLAY 

"  And  now,''  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  looking  round 
on  his  friends  with  a  good-humoured  smile,  and  a 
sparkle  in  the  eye  which  no  spectacles  could  dim 
or  conceal,  "  the  question  is,  Where  shall  we  go  to- 
night ?  " 

With  the  faithful  Sam  in  attendance  behind  his 
chair,  he  was  seated  at  the  head  of  his  own  table, 
with  Mr.  Snodgrass  on  his  left  and  Mr.  Winkle  on 
his  right  and  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle  opposite  him  ;  his 
face  was  rosy  with  jollity,  for  they  had  just  dis- 
patched a  hearty  meal  of  chops  and  tomato  sauce, 
with  bottled  ale  and  Madeira,  and  a  special  allowance 
of  milk  punch  for  the  host. 

Mr.  Jingle  proposed  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  and  Mr.  Pick- 
wick proposed  Mr.  Jingle.  Mr.  Snodgrass  proposed 
Mr.  Winkle  ;  and  Mr.  Winkle  proi)osod  Mr.  Snod- 
grass ;  while  Sam,  taking  a  deep  pull  at  the  stone 
bottle  of  milk  punch  behind  his  master's  chair, 
silently  proposed  himself. 

"  And  where,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  shall  we  go 
to-night  ?  "  Mr.  Snodgrass,  as  modest  as  all  great 
geniuses  arc,  was  silent.  Mr.  Winkle,  who  had  been 
thinking    of    Arabella,     started     violently,     looked 

46 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

knowing,  and  was  beginning  to  stammer  some- 
thing, when  he  was  interrupted  by  Mr.  Jingle — "  A 
musical  eomcdy,  old  boy — no  plot — fine  women — 
gags — go  by-by — wake  up  for  chorus — entertaining, 
very." 

"  And  lyrics,"  said  Mr.  Snodgrass,  with  poetic 
rapture. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  suggest  it,"  said  Mr.  Winkle, 
"  when  this  individual  "  (scowling  at  Mr.  Jingle, 
who  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  with  a  derisive 
smile),  "  when,  I  repeat,  this  individual  interrupted 
me. 

"  A  musical  comedy,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Mr. 
Pickwick.  "  Sam,  give  me  the  paper.  H'm,  h'm, 
what's  this  ?  The  Eclipse,  a  farce  with  songs — will 
that  do  ?  " 

"  But  is  a  farce  with  songs  a  musical  comedy  ?  " 
objected  Mr.  Winkle. 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  this  is  very 
puzzling." 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Sam,  touching 
his  forelock,  "  it's  a  distinction  without  a  difference 
— as  the  j)ork  pieman  remarked  when  they  asked 
him  if  his  pork  wasn't  kittens." 

"  Then,"  said  Mr,  Pickwick,  with  a  benevolent 
twinkle,  "  by  all  means  let  us  go  to  The  Eclipse.'' 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Sam  again,  doubtfully, 
"  there  ain't  no  astrongomies  in  it,  is  there  ?  "  Sara 
had  not  forgotten  his  adventure  with  the  scientific 
gentleman  at  Clifton.     But,  as  nobody  knew,  they 

46 


MR.    PICKWICK    AT    THE    PLAY 

set  off  for  tlie  Garrick  Theatre,  and  were  soon  en- 
sconced in  a  box. 

They  found  the  stage  occu])icd  by  a  waiter,  who 
was  the  very  image  of  the  waiter  Mr.  Pickwick  had 
seen  at  the  Old  Royal  Hotel  at  Birmingham,  except 
that  he  didn't  imperceptibly  melt  away.  Waiters, 
in  general,  never  walk  or  run  ;  they  have  a  peculiar 
and  mysterious  power  of  skimming  out  of  rooms 
which  other  mortals  possess  not.  But  this  waiter, 
unlik*"  his  kind,  couldn't  "  get  off  "  anyhow.  He 
explained  that  it  was  because  the  composer  had 
given  him  no  music  to  "  get  off  "  with. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  greatly  dis- 
tressed ;   "  will  he  have  to  stop  there  all  night  ?  " 

"  Not,"  muttered  Sam  to  himself,  "  if  I  wos 
behind  'im  with  a  bradawl." 

However,  the  waiter  did  at  last  get  off,  and  then 
came  on  again  and  sang  another  verse,  amid  loud 
hoorays,  until  Mr.  Pickwick's  eyes  were  wet  with 
gratification  at  the  universal  jollity. 

"  Fine  fellow,  fine  fellow,"  cried  Mr.  Pickwick  ; 
"  what  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  Hush-h-h,  my  dear  sir,"  whispered  a  charming 
young  man  of  not  nmch  more  than  fifty  in  the  next 
box,  in  whom  Mr.  Pickwick,  abashed,  recognized  Mr. 
Angelo  Cyrus  Bantam,  "that  is  Mr.  Alfred  Lester." 

"  A  born  waiter,"  interjected  Mr.  Jingle,  "  once 
a  waiter  always  a  waiter — stage  custom — Medes  and 
Persians — wears  his  napkin  for  a  nightcap — droll 
fellow,  very." 

47 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

By  and  by  there  was  much  talk  of  a  mysterious 
Tubby  Haifj,  and  tlicy  even  sang  a  song  about  him  ; 
but  he  did  not  appear  on  the  stage,  and  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, whose  curiosity  was  excited,  asked  who  this 
Tubby  Haig  was. 

Sam  guessed  lie  might  be  own  brother  to  Mr. 
Wardle's  Fat  Boy,  Joe,  or  j)erhaps  "  the  old 
gen'l'm'n  as  wore  the  pigtail — rcg'lar  fat  man,  as 
hadn't  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  own  shoes  for  live- 
and-forty  year,"  but  Mr.  Bantam  again  leaned  over 
from  his  box  and  whispered  : — 

"  Hush-h-li,  my  dear  sir,  nobody  is  fat  or  old  in 

Ba-a 1  mean  in  literary  circles.    Mr.  Tubby  Haig 

is  a  popular  author  of  detective  stories,  much  prized, 
along  with  alley  tors  and  commoncN'S,  by  the  youth 
of  this  town." 

But  a  sudden  start  of  Mr.  Winkle's  and  a  rapturous 
exclamation  from  Mr.  Snodgrass  again  directed  Mr^ 
Pickwick's  attention  to  the  scene.  He  almost  fainted 
with  dismay.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  lights,  was  a  lady  with  her 
shoulders  and  back  (which  she  kept  turning  to  the 
lights)  bare  to  the  waist ! 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  cried  Mr.  Pickwick,  shrinking 
behind  the  curtain  of  the  box,  "  wiiat  a  dreadful 
thing  1  " 

He  mustered  up  courage,  and  looked  out  again. 
The  lady  was  still  there,  not  a  bit  discomposed. 

"  Most  extraordinary  female,  this,"  thought  Mr. 
Pickwick,  jDopping  in  again. 

48 


MR.    PICKWICK    AT    THE    PLAY 

She  still  remained,  however,  and  even  threw  an 
arch  glanee  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  direction,  as  niucii  as 
to  say,  "  You  old  dear." 

"  But — but —  "  cried  Mr.  Pickwick,  in  an  agony, 
"  won't  she  catch  cold  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  no,  sir,"  said  Sam,  "  she's 
quite  used  to  it,  and  it's  done  with  the  very  best 
intentions,  as  the  gcn'l'man  said  ven  he  run  away 
from  his  wife,  'cos  she  seemed  unhappy  with  him." 

If  Mr.  Pickwick  was  distressed,  very  different  was 
the  effect  of  the  lovely  vision  upon  Mr.  Winkle.  Alas 
for  the  weakness  of  human  nature  !  he  forgot  for 
the  moment  all  about  Arabella.  Suddenly  grasping 
his  hat,  he  rose  from  his  scat,  said  "  Good-night,  my 
dear  sir,"  to  Mr.  Pickwick  between  his  set  teeth, 
added  brokenly,  "  My  friend,  my  benefactor,  m\' 
honoured  companion,  do  not  judge  me  harshly  " — 
and  dashed  out  of  the  box. 

"  'V^ery  extraordinary,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  to  him- 
self, "  what  can  that  young  man  be  going  to  do  ?  " 

Meanwhile,  for  Mr.  Winkle  to  rush  downstairs, 
into  the  street,  round  the  corner,  as  far  as  the  stage- 
door,  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  Taking  out  a  card 
engraved  "  Nathaniel  Winki.k,  M.P.C,"  he  hastily 
pencilled  a  few  fervent  words  on  it  and  handed  it  to 
the  doorkeeper,  rccjuiring  him  instantly  to  convey  it 
to  Miss  Teddie  Gerard. 

"  What  now,  impcrencc,"  said  the  man,  roughly 
pushing  him  from  the  door  and  knocking  his  hut 
over  his  eyes. 

r.r.  49  B 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

At  the  same  moment  Mr.  Winkle  found  his  arms 
pinioned  from  behind  by  Sam  Weller,  who  led  him, 
crestfallen,  back  into  the  street  and  his  senses.  The 
public  were  now  leaving  the  theatre,  and  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, beckoning  Mr.  Winkle  to  approach,  fixed  a 
searching  look  upon  him,  and  uttered  in  a  low,  but 
distinct  and  emphatic,  tone  these  remarkable 
words  : — 

"  You're  a  humbug,  sir." 

"  A  what !  "  said  Mr.  Winkle,  starting. 

"  A  humbug,  sir." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Pickwick  turned  slowly  on 
his  heel,  and  rejoined  his  friends. 


50 


MR.  CRICHTON  AND  MR.   LITTIMER 

They  were  seated  together,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crichton 
in  the  bar-parlour  of  their  httle  pubhc-house  in  the 
Harrow  Road,  at  the  more  fashionable  end,  for 
which  Mr.  Criehton  had  himself  invented  the  sign 
(in  memory  of  his  i)ast  expcricnecs)  of  "  The  Case 
is  Altered."  Mr.  Crichton,  too,  was  altered  and  yet 
the  same.  He  wore  one  of  the  Earl's  old  smoking- 
jackets,  with  a  coronet  still  embroidered  on  the 
breast  pocket — not,  he  said,  out  of  anything  so 
vulgar  as  ostentation,  but  as  a  sort  of  last  link  with 
the  Upper  House — but  his  patent  leather  boots 
had  given  place  to  car])et  slippers,  and  his  trousers, 
once  so  impeccable,  were  now  baggy  at  the  knees. 
Altogether  he  was  an  easier,  more  relaxed  Crichton, 
freed  as  he  was  from  tiic  restraining,  if  nspeetful, 
criticism  of  the  servants'  hall.  Indeed,  Miss  Fisher, 
who  had  always  hated  him,  hinted  that  he  had 
become  slightly  Rabelaisian — a  reference  whieh  she 
owed  to  mademoiselle — though  she  would  not  have 
dared  to  repeat  the  hint  to  Mrs.  Criehton  (///f  Tweeny). 
For  marriage  had  in  no  degree  abated  Tweeny's 
reverence  for  her  Crichton,  or  rather,  as  old  habit 
still  impellfd  her  to  rail  him,  Ikt  (Jiiv. 

51  ■  S 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

The  Guv.  was  at  this  moment  comforting  himself 
witli  a  glass  of  port  (from  the  wood)  and  thinking  of 
that  bin  of  '47  he  had  helped  the  Earl  to  finish  in  past 
days.  And  now  he  was  inhabiting  a  road  where  (at 
least  at  the  other,  the  unfashionable,  end)  port  was 
invariably  "  port  wine."  Such  are  the  vicissitudes 
of  human  affairs.  Tweeny  herself  was  guilty  of  the 
solecism,  as  was  perhaps  to  be  expected  from  a  lady 
who,  for  her  own  drinking,  preferred  swipes.  Though 
she  had  made  great  strides  in  her  education  ruider 
the  Guv.'s  guidance  (she  was  now  nearly  into 
quadratic  equations,  and  could  say  the  dates  of 
accession  of  the  kings  of  England  down  to  James  II.), 
she  still  made  sad  havoc  of  her  nominatives  and  verbs 
in  the  heat  of  conversation. 

"  A  gent  as  wants  to  see  the  Guv.,"  said  the  pot- 
boy, pojjping  his  head  in  at  the  bar-parlour  door — 
the  potboy,  for  Tweeny  knew  better  than  to  have 
a  barmaid  about  the  place  for  the  Guv.  to  cast  a 
favourable  eye  on. 

A  not  very  clean  card  was  handed  in,  inscribed  : — 
"  Mk.  Littimer," 
and  the  owner  walked  in  after  it.  Or,  rather, 
glided  softly  in,  shutting  the  door  after  entry  as 
delicately  as  though  the  inmates  had  just  fallen 
into  a  sweet  sleep  on  which  their  life  depended. 
Mr.  Littimer  was  an  old-fashioned  looking  man, 
with  mutton-chop  whiskers,  a  "  stock,"  tied  in  a 
large  bow,  a  long  frock-coat,  and  tight  trousers — 
the    whole   suggesting    nothing   of  recent   or   even 

52 


MR.  CRICHTON   AND  MR.  LITTIMER 

modern  date,  but,  say,  1850.  It  was  an  appearance 
of  intense  respectability,  of  super-respectability,  of 
that  1850  respectability  which  was  so  infinitely  more 
respectable  than  any  respectability  of  our  own  day. 
Mr.  Crichton  stared,  as  well  he  might,  and  washed 
his  hands  with  invisible  soap.  Though,  in  fact, 
now  middle-aged,  he  felt  in  this  man's  presence 
extremely  young.  He  clean  forgot  that  he  had  been 
a  King  in  Babylon.  Indeed,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he,  the  consummate,  the  magisterial,  the 
admirable  Crichton,  felt  almost  green. 

'■  Mr.  Crichton,  sir,"  said  the  visitor,  with  an 
apologetic  inclination  of  the  head,  "  I  have  ventured 
to  take  the  great  liberty  of  calling  upon  you,  if  you 
please,  sir,  and,"  he  added  with  another  inclination 
of  the  head  to  Mrs.  Crichton  (who  felt  what  she 
would  herself  have  called  flabbergasted),  "  if  you 
please,  ma'am,  as  an  old  friend  of  your  worthy  father. 
He  was  butler  at  Mrs.  Steerforth's  when  I  valeted 
poor  Mr.  James."  His  eye  fell,  respectably,  on  Mr. 
Crichton's  port.     "  Ah  !  "   he  said,  "  his  wine  was 

Madeira,    but "     A   second   glass   of  port    was 

thereupon  ))laced  on  the  table,  and  he  sipped  it 
respectably. 

Mr.  Crichton  could  only  stare,  speechless.  All  his 
aplomb  had  gone.  lie  gazed  at  a  ship's  bucket,  his 
most  chtrislKd  island  relic,  which  hung  from  the 
ceiling  (as  a  shade  for  the  electric  light — one  of  his 
little  mechanical  ingenuities),  and  wondered  whether 
he  ever  could  have  put  anybody's  head  in  it.     His 

68 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

philosophy  was,  for  once,  at  fault.  He  knew,  none 
better,  that  "  nature  "  had  made  us  all  unequal, 
dividing  us  up  into  carls  and  butlers  and  tweenies, 
but  now  for  the  first  time  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
*'  nature "  had  made  us  unequally  respectable. 
Here  was  something  more  respectable,  vastly  more 
respectable,  than  himself;  respectable  not  in  the 
grand  but  in  the  sublime  manner. 

He  could  not  guess  his  visitor's  thoughts,  and  it 
was  well  for  his  peace  of  mind  that  he  could  not. 
For  Mr.  Littimer's  thoughts  were,  respectably, 
jiaternal.  He  thought  of  Mr.  Crichton,  sen.,  and 
still  more  of  the  senior  Mrs.  Crichton,  once  "  own 
woman  "  to  Mrs.  Steerforth.  Ah  !  those  old  days 
and  those  old  loves  !  How  sad  and  bad  and  mad 
it  was — for  Mr.  Littimer's  poet  was  Browning,  as  his 
host's  was  Henley,  as  suited  the  difference  in  their 
dates — and  how  they  had  deceived  old  Crichton 
between  them  !  So  this  was  his  boy,  his,  Littimer's, 
thoTigh  no  one  knew  it  save  himself  and  the  dead 
woman  !  And  as  he  gazed,  with  respectable  fond- 
ness, at  this  image,  modernized,  modified,  subdued, 
of  his  o\vn  respectability,  he  reflected  that  there  was 
something  in  heredity,  after  all.  And  he  smiled, 
respectably,  as  he  remembered  his  boy's  opinion 
that  the  union  of  butler  and  lady's  maid  was  perhaps 
the  happiest  of  all  combinations.  Perhaps,  yes  ;  but 
without  any  perhaps,  if  the  combination  included  the 
valet. 

Unhappy,   on    llu-   tUher   hand,   were  those   com- 

64 


MR.   CRICHTON  AND  MR.  LITTIMER 

binations  from  which  valets  were  pointedly  excluded. 
There  was  that  outrageous  young  person  whom  Mr. 
James  left  behind  at  Naples  and  who  turned  upon 
him,  the  respectable  Littimer,  like  a  fury,  when  he 
was  prepared  to  overlook  her  past  in  honourable 
marriage. 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Criehton, 
who  had  been  mentally  piecing  together  her  recol- 
lections of  "  David  Copperfield  " — her  Guv.  had 
given  her  a  Dickens  course — and  had  now  arrived  at 
a  conclusion.  "  Axin'  yer  pardon,  mister,"  she  said 
(being  still,  as  we  have  stated,  a  little  vulgar  when 
excited),  "  but  if  you  was  valet  to  Mr.  James 
Steerforth,  you're  the  man  as  'elped  'im  to  ruin 
that  pore  gal,  and  as  afterwards  went  to  quod  for 
stcalin'.  I  blushes  " — here  her  eye  fell  on  the  Guv., 
who  quietly  dropped  the  correction  "  blush  " — "  I 
blush  for  yer,  Mr.  Littimer."  "  Ah,  ma'am,"  Mr. 
Littimer  respectably  apologized,  "  I  attribute  my 
past  follies  entirely  to  having  lived  a  thoughtless  life 
in  the  service  of  young  men  ;  and  to  having  allowed 
myself  to  be  led  by  them  into  weaknesses,  which  I 
had  not  the  strength  to  resist." 

"  And  that,  I  venture  to  suggest,  ma'am,"  he 
respectably  continued,  "  is  why  your  worthy  husband 
has  been  so  much  more  fortunate  in  the  world  than 
myself.  We  are  both  respectable,  if  1  may  say  so, 
patterns  of  respectability  "  (Criehton  coloured  with 
gratification  at  this  compliment  from  the  Master), 
"  and  yet  our  respectability  has  brought  us  very 

65 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

different  fates.  And  wliy,  if  you  please,  ma'am  ? 
liecause  I  have  served  the  young,  wliile  he  has  served 
the  old — for  I  believ^e,  ma'am,  the  most  noble  the 
Earl  of  Loam  is  long  past  the  meridian.  Besides, 
ma'am,  we  Early  Victorians  had  not  your  husband's 
educational  advantages.  There  were  no  Board 
schools  for  me.  Not  that  I'm  complaining,  ma'am. 
We  could  still  teach  the  young  'uns  a  thing  or  two 
about  respectability."  And  so  with  a  proud  himiility 
(and  an  intuition  that  there  was  to  be  no  more  port) 
he  took  his  leave,  again  shutting  the  door  with  the 
utmost  delicacy.  He  was,  in  truth,  well  content. 
He  had  seen  his  boy.  The  sacred  lamp  of  respecta- 
bility was  not  out. 

But  Mr.  Crichton  sat  in  a  maze,  still  washing  his 
hands  with  invisible  soap. 


50 


HENRY  JAMES  REPUDIATES 
"THE  REPROBATE" 

He  had  dropped,  a  little  wearily,  the  poor  dear 
man,  into  a  seat  at  the  shady  end  of  the  terrace, 
whither  he  had  wended  or,  it  came  over  him  with 
a  sense  of  the  blest  "  irony  "  of  vulgar  misinterpre- 
tation, almost  zig-zagged  his  way  after  lunch.  For 
he  had  permitted  himself  the  merest  sip  of  the 
ducal  Yquem  or  Brane  Cantenac,  or  whatever — he 
knew  too  well,  oh,  didnH  he  ?  after  all  these  years 
of  Scratchem  house-parties,  the  dangerous  con- 
vivialities one  had  better  show  for  beautifully 
appreciating  than  freely  partake  of — but  he  had 
been  unable,  in  his  exposure  as  the  author  of 
established  rej)utation,  the  celebrity  of  the  hour,  the 
"  master,"  as  chattering  Lady  Jemima  would  call 
him  between  the  omelette  and  the  chaudfroid,  to 
"  take  cover "  from  the  ducal  dales,  ^Vell,  the 
"  All  clear  "  was  now  sounded,  but  his  head  was 
still  dizzy  with  the  reverberating  "87"s  and  '90's 
and  "OG's  and  other  such  bombs  of  chronological 
precision  that  the  host  had  dropped  upon  the  guests 
as  the  butler  filled  their  glasses.  His  subsequent 
consciousness   was   (iiiile   to   cherish   the   view  that 

57 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

dates  which  went  thus  distressingly  to  one's  head 
must  somehow  not  be  allowed  to  slip  out  of  it  a^ain, 
but  be  turned  into  "  coj)y  "  for  readers  who  inno- 
cently look  to  their  favourite  romancers  for  eon- 
noisseurship  in  wines.  ^Vhat  Lady  Jemima  had 
flung  out  at  hnieh  was  true,  readers  are  a  "  rum  lot," 
and,  hang  it  all,  who  says  art  says  sacrifice,  readers 
were  a  necessary  evil,  the  many-headed  monster 
must  be  fed,  and  he'd  be  blest  if  he  wouldn't  feed 
it  with  dates,  and  show  himself  for,  indulgently, 
richly,  chronologically,  "  rum." 

It  marked,  however,  the  feeling  of  the  hour  with 
him  that  this  vision  of  future  "  bluffing "  about 
vintages  interfered  not  at  all  with  the  measure 
pf  his  actual  malaise.  He  still  nervously  fingered 
the  telegram  handed  to  him  at  lunch,  and,  when 
read,  furtively  crumpled  into  his  pocket  under 
Lady  Jemima's  celebrated  nose.  It  was  entirely 
odious  to  him,  the  crude  purport  of  the  message,  as 
well  as  the  hideous  yellow  ochre  of  its  envelope. 
"  Confidently  expect  you,"  the  horrid  thing  ran, 
"  to  come  and  see  your  own  play."  This  Stage 
Society,  if  that  was  its  confounded  name,  was  indeed 
of  a  confidence  !  Yes,  and  of  the  last  vulgarity  ! 
His  conscience  was  not  void,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
quite  charged  and  brimming  with  remembered 
lapses  from  the  ideal  life  of  letters — it  was  the  hair- 
shirt  he  secretly  wore  even  in  the  Scratchem  world 
under  the  conventional  garment  which  the  Lady 
Jemimas   of  that   world   teased   liim    by   calling   a 

ffS 


"THE    REPROBATE" 

"  boiled  rag  " — but  the  "  expected,"  that,  thank 
goodness,  he  had  never  been  guilty  of.  Nay,  was 
it  not  his  "  note,"  as  the  reviewers  said,  blithely  and 
persistently  to  balk  "  expectation  "  ?  Had  he  not 
in  every  book  of  his  successfully  hugged  his  own 
mystery  ?  Had  not  these  same  reviewers  always 
missed  his  little  point  with  a  perfection  exactly  as 
admirable  when  they  patted  him  on  the  back  as 
when  they  kicked  him  on  tlic  shins  ?  Did  a  single 
one  of  them  ever  discover  "  the  figure  in  the  carpet  "  ? 
How  many  baflfled  readers  hadn't  written  to  him 
imploring  him  to  divulge  what  really  happened 
between  Milly  and  Densher  in  that  last  meeting  at 
Venice  ?  Certainly  he  was  in  no  chuckling  mood 
under  the  smart  of  the  telegram,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  could  almost  have  chuckled  at  the 
thought  that  he  beautifully  didn't  know  what 
happened  in  that  Venetian  meeting  himself !  And 
this  impossible  Stage  Society,  with  that  collective 
fatuity  which  seems  always  so  much  more  gross 
than  any  individual  sort,  "  confidently  expected  " 
him  to  come  ! 

What  was  it,  jjlease,  he  put  tlie  question  to  him- 
self with  a  heat  which  seemed  to  give  even  the 
shad)'  end  of  the  terrace  the  inconvenience  of  an 
exposure  to  full  sun,  they  expected  him  to  come  to, 
or,  still  worse,  for  having  probed  the  wound  he  must 
not  flinch  with  the  scalpel,  to  come /or  ?  Oh,  no, 
he  had  not  forgotten  The  Reprobate,  and  what  angered 
him  was  that  tlu^y  hadn't,  either.     He  had  not  for- 

69 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

gotten  a  blessed  one  of  the  plays  he  had  written  for 
the  country  towns  a  score  of  years  ago,  when  he  had 
been  bitten  by  the  tarantula  of  the  theatre,  and, 
remembering  them,  he  felt  now  viciously  capable  of 
biting  the  tarantula  back.  He  had  written  them, 
God  forgi^'e  him,  for  country  towns.  He  positively 
shuddered  when  he  found  himself  in  a  country  town, 
to  this  day.  The  terrace  at  Scratchem  notoriously 
commanded  a  distant  prospect  of  at  least  three,  in 
as  many  counties,  with  cathedrals,  famous  inns, 
theatres — the  whole  orthodox  equipment,  he  summed 
it  up  vindictively  in  cheap  journalese,  of  country 
towns.  Vindictive,  too,  was  his  reflection  that  these 
objects  of  his  old  crazy  solicitude  must  have  been 
revolutionized  in  twenty  years,  their  cathedrals 
"  restored,"  their  inns  (the  "  A.B.C."  vouched  for 
it)  "  entirely  refitted  with  electric  light,"  their 
theatres  turned  into  picture  palaces.  All  the  old 
associations  of  The  Reprobate  were  extinct.  It  was 
monstrous  that  it  should  be  entirely  refitted  with 
electric  liglit. 

And  in  the  crude  glare  of  that  powerful  illuminant, 
with  every  switch  or  whatever  mercilessly  turned — 
didn't  they  call  it  ? — "  on,"  he  seemed  to  see  the 
^^Tetchcd  thing,  bare  and  hideous,  with  no  cheap 
artifice  of  "  make-up,"  no  dab  of  rouge  or  streak  of 
burnt  cork,  spared  the  dishonour  of  exposure.  The 
crack  in  the  golden  bowl  would  be  revealed,  his 
awkward  age  would  be  brought  up  against  him, 
what  Maisie  knew  would  be  nothing  to  what  every- 

60 


"THE    REPROBATE" 

body  would  now  know.  His  agony  was  not  long 
purely  mental  ;  it  suddenly  became  intercostal.  A 
sharp  point  had  dug  him  in  the  ribs.  It  was  Lady 
Jemima's,  it  couldn't  not  be  Lady  Jemima's,  pink 
parasol.  Aware  of  the  really  great  ease  of  really 
great  ladies  he  forced  a  smile,  as  he  rubbed  his  side. 
Ah,  Olympians  were  unconventional  indeed — that 
was  a  part  of  their  high  bravery  and  privilege. 

"  Dear  Master,"  she  began,  and  the  phrase  iuirt 
him  even  more  than  the  parasol,  "  won't  you  take 
poor  little  me  ?  " 

The  great  lady  had  read  his  telegram  !  Olympian 
unconventionality  was  of  a  licence  ! 

"  Yes,"  she  archly  beamed,  "  I  looked  over  your 
shoulder  at  lunch,  and " 

"  And,"  he  interruptingly  wailed,  "  you  know 
all." 

"  All,"  she  nodded,  "  iuut  le  trcmblerncnt ,  the  wiiole 
caboodle.     Now  be  an  angel  and  take  me." 

"  But,  dear  lady,"  he  gloomed  at  her,  "  that's  just 
it.  The  blest  play  is  so  naively,  so  vulgarly,  beyond 
all  redemption  though  not,  thank  ^ea^■en,  beyond 
my  repudiation,  caboodle." 

''  Oh,  fiddlesticks,"  she  playfully  rejoined,  and 
the  artist  in  him  registered  for  future  use  her  rich 
Olympian  vocabulary,  "  you  wrote  it.  Master,  any- 
how. We've  all  been  young  once.  Take  mc,  and 
we'll  both  be  young  again,"  she  gave  it  him  straight, 
"  together." 

Ah,  then  the  woman  rcf/.v  dangerous.     Scratcluin 

61 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

gossip  had,  for  once,  not  overshot  the  mark.  He 
would  sliow  her,  all  Olympian  though  she  was,  that 
giving  it  straight  was  a  game  two  could  play  at. 

"  Dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  you're  wonderful.  But 
I  won't  take  you.  What's  more,  I'm  not  " — and 
he  had  it  to  himself  surprisingly  ready — "  taking 
any." 


62 


M.  BERGERET  ON  FILM  CENSORING 

A  LATE  October  sun  of  unusual  splendour  lit  up 
the  windows  of  M.  Paillot's  bookshop,  at  the  corner 
of  the  Place  Saint-Exupere  and  the  Rue  des  Tintel- 
leries.  But  it  was  sombre  in  the  back  region  of  the 
shop  where  the  second-hand  book  shelves  were  and 
M.  Mazure,  the  departmental  archivist,  adjusted 
his  spectacles  to  read  his  copy  of  Le  Phare,  with  one 
eye  on  the  newspaper  and  the  other  on  M.  Paillot 
and  his  customers.  For  M.  Mazure  wished  not  so 
much  to  read  as  to  be  seen  reading,  in  order  that  he 
might  be  asked  what  the  leading  article  was  and 
reply,  "  Oh,  a  little  thing  of  my  own."  But  the 
question  was  not  asked,  for  the  only  other  hahitui 
present  was  the  Lecturer  in  Latin  at  the  Faculty  of 
Letters,  who  was  sad  and  silent.  M.  Bergerct  was 
turning  over  the  new  books  and  the  old  with  a 
friendly  hand,  and  though  he  never  bought  a  book 
for  fear  of  the  outcries  of  his  wife  and  three  daughters 
he  was  on  the  best  of  terms  with  M.  Paillot,  who 
held  him  in  high  esteem  as  the  reservoir  and  alc-mbie 
of  those  huMianer  letters  that  are  the  livelihood  aiul 
profit  of  booksellers.  He  took  up  Vol.  XXXVIII. 
of     "  L'llistoire     Grru'rale    des    Voyages,"     which 

63 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

always  opened  at  the  same  place,  p.  212,  and  he 
read  ; — 

"  ver  nn  passage  au  nord.  '  C'est  a  cet  echcc,  dit-il, 
que  nous  dcvons  n'avoir  i)u  visiter  les  iles  Sandwich 
et  enrichir  notre  voyage  d'une  decouverte  qui  .  .  .'" 

For  six  years  past  the  same  page  had  presented 
itself  to  M.  Bergerct,  as  an  example  of  the  monotony 
of  life,  as  a  symbol  of  the  uniformity  of  daily  tasks, 
and  it  saddened  him. 

At  that  moment  M.  de  Tcrrcmondrc,  president  of 
the  Society  of  Agriculture  and  Archaeology,  entered 
the  shop  and  greeted  his  friends  with  the  slight  air 
of  superiority  of  a  traveller  over  stay-at-homes. 
"  I've  just  got  back  from  England,"  he  said,  "  and 
here,  if  either  of  you  have  enough  English  to  read  it, 
is  to-day's  I'imes.'" 

M.  Mazure  hastily  thrust  Le  Phare  into  his  pocket 
and  looked  askance  at  the  voluminous  foreign 
journal,  wherein  he  could  claim  no  little  thing  of 
his  own.  M.  Bergeret  accepted  it  and  applied  him- 
self as  conscientiously  to  construing  the  text  as 
though  it  were  one  of  those  books  of  the  .Eneid  from 
which  he  was  compiling  his  "  Virgilius  Nauticus." 
"  The  manners  of  our  neighbours,"  he  presently 
said,  "  are  as  usual  more  interesting  to  a  student  of 
human  nature  than  their  polities.  I  read  that  they 
are  seriously  concerned  about  the  ethical  teaching 
of  their  kinematogra}jiiy,  and  they  have  appointed 
a  fihu  censor,  the  deputy  T.  P.  OToiuior." 

64 


M.  BERGERET  ON  FILM  CENSORING 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  speak  of  hiin  over  there," 
interrupted  M.  de  Terremondre  ;  "  they  call  him, 
famiUarly,  Tepe." 

"  A  mysterious  name,"  said  M.  Bergeret,  "  but 
manifestly  not  abusive,  and  that  of  itself  is  a  high 
honour.  History  records  few  nicknames  that  do  not 
revile.  And  if  the  deputy  O'Connor,  or  Tepe,  can 
successfully  acquit  himself  of  his  present  functions 
he  will  be  indeed  an  ornament  to  history,  a  saint  of 
the  Positivist  Calendar,  which  is  no  doubt  less 
glorious  than  the  Roman,  but  more  exclusive." 

"  Talking  of  Roman  saints,"  broke  in  M.  Mazure, 
"  the  Abbe  Lantaigne  has  been  spreading  it  abroad 
that  you  called  Joan  of  Arc  a  mascot." 

"  By  way  of  argument  merely,"  said  M.  Bergeret, 
"  not  of  epigram.  The  Abbe  and  I  were  discussing 
theology,  about  which  I  never  permit  myself  to  be 
facetious." 

"  But  what  of  Tepe  and  his  censorial  functions  ?  " 
asked  M.  de  Terremondre. 

"  They  are  extremely  delicate,"  replied  M.  Ber- 
geret, "  and  offer  pitfalls  to  a  censor  with  a  velleity 
for  nice  distinctions.  Thus  I  read  that  this  one  has 
already  dislingiiished,  and  distinguished  con  alle- 
grezza,  between  romantic  crime  and  realistic  crime, 
between  murder  in  Mexico  and  murder  in  Mile  End 
(which  I  take  to  be  a  suburb  of  London).  He  has 
distinguished  between  '  guilty  love  '  and  '  the  pur- 
suit of  lust.'  He  has  distinguished  between  a  lightly- 
clad   lady    swimming  and   the   same   lady   at   rest, 

p.p.  65  ' 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Surely  u  man  gifted  with  so  exquisite  a  discrimina- 
tion is  wasted  in  rude  practical  life.  He  should  have 
been  a  metaphysician." 

"  Well,  I,"  confessed  M.  de  Terremondrc,  "  am  no 
metaphysician,  and  it  seems  to  me  murder  is  murder 
all  the  world  over." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  M.  Bergeret,  "  but  there,  I 
think,  your  Tepe  is  quite  right.  Murder  is  murder 
all  the  world  over  if  30U  are  on  the  spot.  But  if  you 
are  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  it  in  space  or  time, 
it  may  present  itself  as  a  thrilling  adventure.  Thus 
the  Mexican  film  censor  will  be  right  in  prohibiting 
films  of  mmdcr  in  Mexico,  and  not  ANTong  in  admit- 
ting those  of  murder  in  Mile  End.  ^Vhcre  would 
tragedy  be  without  murder  ?  We  enjoy  the  murders 
of  Julius  Casar  or  of  Duncan  because  they  are  re- 
mote ;  they  gratify  the  primeval  passion  for  blood 
in  us  without  a  sense  of  risk.  But  we  could  not 
tolerate  a  play  or  a  picture  of  yesterday's  murder 
next  door,  because  we  think  it  might  happen  to  our- 
selves. Remember  that  murder  was  long  esteemed 
in  our  human  societies  as  an  energetic  action,  and 
in  our  manners  and  in  our  institutions  there  still 
subsist  traces  of  this  antique  esteem.  And  that  is 
why  I  approve  the  English  film  censor  for  treating 
with  a  wise  indulgence  one  of  the  most  venerable  of 
our  human  admirations.  He  gratifies  it  under  con- 
ditions of  remoteness  that  deprive  bloodshed  of  its 
reality  while  conserving  its  artistic  verisiniilitude." 

"  But,  bless  my  soul,""  said  M.  dc  Ti  rrfiiiondre 
66 


M.  BERGERET  ON  FILM  CENSORING 

"  how  docs  the  man  distinguish  between  guilty  love 
and  lust  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  fine  point,"'  said  M.  Bergeret.  "  The 
Fathers  of  the  Church,  the  schoolmen,  the  Renais- 
sance humanists,  Descartes  and  Locke,  Kant,  Hegel, 
and  Schopenhauer,  have  all  failed  to  make  the  dis- 
tinction, and  some  of  them  have  even  confounded 
with  the  two  what  men  to-day  agree  in  calling  inno- 
cent love.  But  is  love  ever  innocent — unless  it  be 
that  love  Professor  Bcllac  in  Pailleron's  play  de- 
scribed as  V amour  psychique,  the  love  that  Petrarch 
bore  to  Laura  ?  " 

"  If  I  remember  aright,"  interposed  M.  Mazure, 
"  someone  else  in  the  play  remarked  that  Laura  had 
eleven  children." 

Just  then  Mme.  dc  Gromance  passed  across  the 
Place.  The  conversation  was  suspended  while  all 
three  men  watched  her  into  the  patissier's  opposite, 
elegantly  hovering  over  the  plates  of  cakes,  and 
finally  settling  on  a  baba  an  rhum. 

"  Sapristi  !  "  exclaimed  M.  de  Terrcmondre,  "  she's 
the  prettiest  woman  in  the  whole  place." 

M.  Bergeret  mentally  went  over  several  passages 
in  /Eneid,  Book  IV.,  looked  ruefully  at  his  frayed 
shirt  cuffs,  and  regretted  the  narrow  life  of  a  pro- 
vincial university  lecturer  that  reduced  him  to  in- 
significance in  the  eyes  of  the  prettiest  woman  in 
the  place. 

"  Yes,"  he  saiti  witli  a  sigh,  "  it  is  a  very  fine  point. 
I  wonder  how  on  eartli  Tepe  manages  to  settle  it    " 

07  F2 


THE    CHOCOLATE    DRAMA 

Civilization  is  a  failure.  That  we  all  knew,  even 
before  the  war,  and  indeed  ever  sinee  the  world 
first  began  to  suffer  from  the  intolerable  nuisance 
of  disobedient  parents.  But  the  latest  and  most 
fatal  sign  of  dccadcnee  is  the  advent  of  a  paradoxical 
Lord  Chancellor.  I  read  in  a  I'imes  leader : — 
"  When  the  Lord  Chancellor  ponderously  observes 
in  the  House  of  Lords  that  the  primary  business  of 
theatres  '  is  not  to  sell  chocolates  but  to  present  the 
drama,'  he  is  making  a  statement  which  is  too  absurd 
to  analyse."  The  Times,  I  rejoice  to  see,  is  living 
up  to  its  high  traditions  of  intrepid  and  incisive 
utterance.  I  should  not  myself  complain  if  the 
Lord  Ciianccllor  was  merely  i)onderous.  As  the 
dying  Heine  observed,  when  someone  wondered  if 
Providence  would  pardon  him,  c'esi  son  metier. 
What  is  so  flagrant  is  the  Lord  Chancellor's  ignorance 
of  the  eonunanding  position  acquired  by  chocolate 
in  relation  to  the  modern  drama. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  am  not  a 
chocolatier.  I  have  no  vested  interest  in  cither 
Menier  or  Marquis.  But  I  am  a  frequenter  of 
the  playhouse,  and  live,  therefore,  in  the  odour 
of  chocolate.     I  know  that  without  chocolates  our 

68 


THE    CHOCOLATE    DRAMA 

womenkind  could  not  endure  our  modern  drama  ; 
and  without  womenkind  the  drama  would  cease  to 
exist.  The  question  is,  therefore,  of  the  deepest 
theatrical  importance.  I  feel  sure  the  British 
Drama  League  nmst  have  had  a  meeting  about  it. 
The  advocates  of  a  national  theatre  have  probably 
considered  it  in  committee.  The  two  bodies  (if  they 
are  not  one  and  the  same)  should  arrange  an  early 
deputation  to  the  Food  Controller. 

Meanwhile  the  Lord  Chancellor  wantonly  para- 
doxes. Evidently  he  is  no  playgoer.  That  is  a 
trifle,  and  since  the  production  of  lolanihe  perhaps 
even  (in  the  phrase  of  a  famous  criminal  la\\yer)  "  a 
amiable  weakness."  But,  evidently  also,  he  is  not 
a  chocolate  eater,  and  that  is  serious.  I  suppose, 
after  all,  you  are  not  allowed  to  eat  chocolates  on  the 
Woolsack.  But  there  is  the  Petty  liag.  It  would 
hold  at  least  2  lb.  of  best  mixed.  Why  not  turn  it 
to  a  grateful  and  comforting  purpose  ?  The  Great 
Seal,  too,  might  be  done  in  chocolate,  and  as  I  under- 
stand the  Lord  Chancellor  nnist  never  part  with  it, 
day  or  night,  he  would  have  a  perpetual  source  of 
nourishment.  It  is  time  that  the  symbols  of  oflicc 
ceased  to  be  useless  ornaments.  Stay  !  I  btlicxc  I  have 
stumbled  incidentally  on  the  secret  of  Lord  Ilals- 
bury's  splendid  longevity.     Ask  Menier  or  Marquis. 

But  the  i)resent  Chancellor  has,  clearly,  missed 
his  opportunities.  Let  him  \\s\[  our  lh(;itr(s  and 
there  recognize  the  futility  of  his  prcfencc  that  their 
primary  lousiness  is  to  presint  drama.     He  will  sec 

(J9 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

at  once  that  what  he  put  forward  as  a  main  business 
is  in  reality  a  mere  parergon.  Drama  is  presented, 
but  only  as  an  agreeable,  not  too  obtrusive,  accom- 
paniment to  the  eating  of  chocolate.  The  curtain 
goes  up,  and  the  ladies  in  the  audience,  distraites, 
and  manifestly  feeling  with  Mrs.  Gamp  (or  was  it 
Betsy  Prig  ?)  a  sort  of  sinking,  yawn  through  the 
first  scene  or  two.  Then  there  is  a  rustic  of  paper 
wrappings,  little  white  cardboard  boxes  are  brought 
out  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  there  is  a  dainty 
picking  and  choosing  of  romid  and  square  and 
triangular,  with  a  knowing  rejection  of  the  hard- 
toffee-filled  ones,  and  now  the  fair  faces  are  all  set 
in  a  fixed  smile  of  contentment  and  the  fair  jaws 
are  steadily,  rhythmically  at  work.  To  an  un- 
prepared observer  it  cannot  be  a  pretty  sight. 
Fair  Americans  chewing  gum  are  nothing  to  it. 
There  are  superfine  male  volu])tuaries  who  do  not 
much  care  to  see  women  eat,  even  at  the  festive 
board.  But  to  see  scores  of  women  simultaneously 
eating  chocolates  at  the  theatre  is  an  micanny  thing. 
They  do  it  in  unison,  and  they  do  it  with  an  air  of 
furtive  enjoyment,  as  though  it  were  some  secret 
vice  and  all  the  better  for  being  sinful.  The  act- 
drop  goes  up  and  down,  actors  arc  heard  talking  or 
the  orchestra  playing,  men  pass  out  for  a  cigarette 
and  repass,  but  the  fair  jaws  never  cease  working. 
The  habit  of  needlework,  lace-making,  and  perhaps 
war  knitling  has  given  lovely  woman  that  form  of 
genius  which  has  been  defined  as  a  long  patience. 

70 


THE    CHOCOLATE    DRAMA 

They  eat  chocolates  with  the  monotonous  regularity 
with  which  they  hemstitch  linen  or  darn  socks.  It 
has  been  said  that  women  go  to  elnireh  for  the  sake 
of  the  hhns,  but  they  go  to  the  theatre  for  the  sake 
of  chocolates.  And  the  Lord  Chancellor,  good,  easy 
man,  says  the  primary  business  of  the  theatre  is  to 
present  drama  ! 

No,  its  primary  business  is  to  provide  comfortable 
and  amusing  surroundings  for  fair  chocolate-caters. 
The  play  is  there  for  the  same  reason  the  coon  band 
is  at  a  restaurant,  to  assist  mastication.  That  is 
the  real  explanation  of  recent  ^^cissitudcs  in  the 
dramatic  genres.  Why  has  tragedy  virtually  disap- 
peared from  the  stage  ?  Because  it  will  go  with 
neither  fondants  nor  pralines.  Why  the  enormous 
vogue  of  revues  ?  Because  they  suit  every  kind  of 
chocolate  from  Is.  to  6*.  per  lb.  Why  is  Mr.  George 
Robey  so  universal  a  favourite  ?  Because  he  creates 
the  kind  of  laughter  which  never  interferes  with 
your  nmnching.  The  true,  if  hitherto  secret, 
history  of  the  drama  is  a  history  of  theatrical 
dietary.  Why  is  the  Restoration  drama  so  widely 
different  from  the  Victorian  ?  Because  the  first 
was  an  accompaniment  to  oranges  and  the  second 
to  pork-pies.  We  live  now  in  a  more  refined  age, 
the  age  of  chocolate,  and  enjoy  the  drama  that 
chocolate  deserves.  There  has  been  what  tlie 
vulgar  call  a  "  slump  "  in  the  theatrical  world,  and 
all  sorts  of  far-fetched  (  xplanations  have  been 
offered,  such  as  the  deartii  of  ^ood  plays  and  the 

71 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

dismissal  of  the  "  temporary  "  ladies  from  Govern- 
ment ofTices,  Avith  consequent  loss  of  pocket-money 
for  playgoing.  The  real  cause  is  quite  simple,  as  real 
causes  always  are.     Chocolate  has  "  gone  up." 

And  that  is  the  secret  of  all  the  agitation  about 
the  8  o'clock  rule.  The  purveyors  know  that, 
once  in  the  theatre,  ladies  77iust  eat  chocolate, 
whatever  its  price.  It  is  a  necessity  for  them  there, 
not  a  luxury,  and  after  8  p.m.,  when  the  imported 
supplies  are  running  low,  almost  any  price  might 
be  obtained  for  the  staple  article  of  food  on  the  spot. 
But  why,  it  may  be  asked,  are  the  imported  supplies, 
in  present  circumstances,  insufficient  for  the  whole 
evening's  consumption  ?  Simply  because  the  choco- 
lates eaten  by  women  are  purchased  by  men,  and 
men  arc  so  forgetful.  Besides  they  have  an  absurd 
prejudice  against  bulging  pockets.  Clearly  "  Dora  " 
ought  gracefully  to  withdraw  the  8  o'clock  pro- 
hibition. It  would  not  only  be  a  kindness  to  those 
meritorious  public  servants,  the  chocolate  vendors, 
but  be  also  a  great  lift  to  the  languishing  drama. 
Ladies  who  huAc  emptied  their  chocolate  boxes  are 
apt  to  become  pee\ish — and  then  woe  to  the  last 
act.  With  still  another  smooth  round  tablet  to 
turn  over  on  the  tongue  (especially  if  it  is  the 
deligiitful  sort  that  has  i)epperniint  cream  inside)  the 
play  might  be  followed  to  the  very  end  with  satis- 
faction, and  even  enthusiasm.  The  Lord  Chancellor 
may  ignore  these  facts,  but  they  are  well  known  to 
every  serious  student  of  the  chocolate  drama. 

72 


CROCK 

There  must  be  a  philosophy  of  clowns.  I  would 
rather  find  it  than  look  up  their  history,  which  is 
"  older  than  any  history  that  is  written  in  any  book," 
though  the  respectable  compilers  of  Encyclopaedias 
(I  feel  sure  without  looking)  must  often  have  written 
it  in  their  books.  I  have,  however,  been  reading 
Croce's  history  of  Pulcinella,  because  that  is  history 
written  by  a  philosopher.  It  is  also  a  work  of  for- 
midable erudition,  disproving,  among  other  things, 
the  theory  of  the  learned  Dietcrich  that  he  was  a 
survival  from  the  stage  of  ancient  Rome.  No,  he 
seems  to  have  been  invented  by  one  Silvio  Fiorillo,  a 
Neapolitan  actor  who  flourished  "  negli  ultimi 
dceenni  del  Cincjuecento  e  nci  primi  del  Sciccnto  '' — 
in  fact,  was  a  contemporary  of  an  English  actor,  one 
\Villiam  Shakespeare.  Pulcinella,  you  know  (trans- 
mogrilied,  and  spoiled,  for  us  as  Punch),  was  a  sort 
of  clown,  and  it  is  interesting  to  learn  that  he  was 
invented  by  an  actor  all  out  of  his  own  head.  IJut  I 
for  one  should  be  vastly  more  interested  to  know  wlio 
invented  Crock.  For  Crock  also  is  a  sort  of  clown. 
Yet  no  ;  one  nuist  distinguish.  There  are  clowns 
and  there  is  Crock.     For  Crock  happens  to  be  an 

7;j 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

artist,  and  the  artist  is  always  an  individual.  After 
all,  as  an  individual  artist,  he  must  have  invented 
himself. 

It  was  a  remarkably  happy  invention.  You  may 
sec  that  for  yourselves  at  the  Coliseum,  generally, 
though  true  clown-lovers  follow  it  about  all  over  the 
map  wherever  it  is  to  be  seen.  Victor  Hugo  (and  the 
theme  would  not  have  been  im worthy  of  that  lyre) 
would  have  described  it  in  a  scries  of  antitheses.  It 
is  genial  and  macabre,  owlishly  stupid  and  Macehia- 
vellianly  astute,  platypode  and  feather-light,  caco- 
phonous and  divine)}'  musical.  Crock's  first  act  is  a 
practical  antithesis.  A  strange  creature  with  a  very 
high  and  very  bald  cranium  (you  think  of  what  Fitz- 
gerald said  of  James  Spedding's  :  "  No  wonder  no 
hair  can  grow  at  such  an  altitude  ")  and  in  very 
baggy  breeches  waddles  in  with  an  enormous  port- 
manteau— which  i)roves  to  contain  a  fiddle  no  larger 
than  your  hand.  The  creature  looks  more  simian 
than  human,  but  is  graciously  affable — another  Sir 
Oran  Haut-ton,  in  fact,  with  fiddle  substituted  for 
Sir  Oran's  flute  and  French  horn. 

]3ut  Sir  Oran  was  dumb,  whereas  Crock  has  a 
voice  which  reverberates  along  the  orchestra  and 
seems  almost  to  lift  the  roof.  He  uses  it  to  coimter- 
feit  the  deep  notes  of  an  imaginary  double  bass, 
which  he  balances  himself  on  a  chair  to  play,  and  he 
uses  it  to  roar  with  contemptuous  surprise  at  being 
asked  if  he  can  play  the  piano.  But  it  is  good- 
humoured  contempt.     Crock  is  an  accommodating 

71 


CROCK 

monster,  and  at  a  mere  hint  from  the  vioUnist 
waddles  off  to  change  into  evening  clothes.  In 
them  he  looks  like  a  grotesque  beetle.  Then  his 
antics  at  the  piano  !  His  chair  being  too  far  from 
the  keyboard  he  makes  great  efforts  to  push  the 
piano  nearer.  When  it  is  pointed  out  that  it  would 
be  easier  to  move  the  chair  he  beams  with  delight  at 
the  cleverness  of  the  idea  and  expresses  it  in  a  pecu- 
liarly bland  roar.  Then  he  slides,  in  apparent 
absence  of  mind,  all  over  the  piano-case  and,  on 
finallj^  deciding  to  play  a  tune,  does  it  with  his  feet. 
Thereafter  he  thrusts  his  feet  through  the  seat  of  the 
chair  and  proceeds  to  give  a  performance  of  extra- 
ordinary brilliance  on  the  concertina.  .  .  .  But  I 
am  in  despair,  because  I  see  that  these  tricks,  wliich 
in  action  send  one  into  convulsions  of  laughter,  are 
not  ludicrous,  are  not  to  be  realized  at  all  in  narra- 
tive. It  is  the  old  dilliculty  of  transposing  tiic  comic 
from  three  dimensions  into  two — and  when  the 
comic  becomes  the  grotesque,  and  that  extreme  form 
of  tiie  grotesque  which  constitutes  the  clowncsque, 
then  the  dilliculty  becomes  sheer  impossibility. 

\Vhy  does  tiiis  queer  combination  of  antiu'opoid 
appearance,  unearthly  noises,  physical  agility,  and 
musical  talent — so  flat  in  description— make  one 
laugh  so  inunoderately  in  actual  presentation  ?  Well, 
there  is,  first,  the  old  idea  of  the  parturient  moun- 
tains and  the  ridiculous  mouse.  Of  the  many 
theories  of  the  comic  (all,  according  to  Jean  Paul 
Hichtcr,  themselves  comic)  the  best  known  perhaps 

75 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

is  tlie  theory  of  suddenly  relaxed  strain.  Your 
psychic  energies  have  been  strained  (say  by  Crock's 
huge  portmanteau),  and  are  suddenly  in  excess  and 
let  loose  by  an  inadequate  sequel  (the  tiny  fiddle). 
Then  there  is  the  old  theory  of  Aristotle,  that  the 
comic  is  ugliness  without  pain.  That  will  account 
for  your  laughter  at  Crock's  grotesque  appearance, 
his  baggy  breeches,  his  beetle-like  dress  clothes,  his 
hideous  mouth  giving  utterance  to  harmless  senti- 
ments. Again,  there  is  the  pleasure  arising  from 
the  discovery  that  an  apparent  idiot  has  wholly 
unexpected  superiorities,  acrobatic  skill,  and  vir- 
tuosity in  musical  execution.  But  "  not  such  a  fool 
as  he  looks  "  is  the  class-badge  of  clowns  in  general. 
There  is  something  still  unexplained  in  the  attrac- 
tion of  Crock.  One  can  only  call  it  his  individuality 
— his  benign,  bland  outlook  on  a  cosmos  of  which  he 
seems  modestly  to  possess  the  secret  hidden  from  our- 
selves. One  comes  in  the  end  to  the  old  helpless 
explanation  of  any  individual  artist.  Crock  pleases 
because  he  is  Crock. 

And  now  I  think  one  can  begin  to  see  why  litera- 
ture (or  if  you  think  that  too  pretentious  a  word,  say 
letterpress)  fails  to  do  justice  to  clowns.  Other 
comic  personages  have  their  verbal  jokes,  which  can 
be  quoted  in  evidence,  but  the  clown  (certainly  the 
clown  of  the  Crock  type)  is  a  joke  confined  to  appear- 
ance and  action.  His  effects,  too,  are  all  of  the 
simplest  and  broadest— ^the  obxious  things  (obvious 
when   he   has   invented  them)  whicli  arc  tiie  most 

76 


CROCK 

difficult  of  all  to  translate  into  prose.  You  see,  I 
have  been  driven  to  dcjiend  on  general  epithets  like 
grotesque,  bland,  macabre,  whicli  fit  the  man  too 
loosely  (like  ready-made  elothes  eut  to  fit  innumer- 
able men)  to  give  you  his  exaet  measure.  My  only 
consolation  is  that  I  have  failed  with  the  best. 
Crock,  with  all  his  erudition,  all  his  nicety  of  analysis, 
has  failed  to  realize  Puleinella  for  me.  And  that  is 
where  clowns  may  enjoy  a  secret,  malign  pleasure  ; 
they  proudl}'  confront  a  universe  which  delights  in 
them  but  cannot  describe  them.  A  critic  may  say 
to  an  acrobat,  for  instance  : — "  I  cannot  swing  on 
your  trapeze,  but  I  can  understand  you,  wiiile  you 
cannot  \mderstand  me."  Cut  Crock  seems  to  under- 
stand everything  (he  could  do  no  less,  with  tluit 
noble  forehead),  probably  even  critics,  while  tiiey, 
poor  souls,  can  only  struggle  helplessly  witli  their 
inadequate  adjectives,  and  give  him  up.  But  if  he 
condescended  to  criticism,  be  sure  he  would  not 
struggle  helplessly.  He  would  blandly  thrust  his 
feet  through  the  seat  of  his  chair,  and  then  write  liis 
criticism  with  tliem.  And  (Crock  is  a  Frenchman) 
it  would  be  better  than  Sainte-Beuve. 


77 


THE    FUNCTION    OF    CRITICISM 

EvEKY  critic  or  would-be  critic  has  his  own  Httlc 
theory  of  criticism,  as  every  baby  in  Utopia  Limited 
had  its  own  ickle  prospectus.  This  makes  him  an 
avid,  but  generally  a  recalcitrant,  student  of  other 
people's  theories.  He  is  naturally  anxious,  that  is, 
to  learn  what  the  other  j)eople  think  about  what 
inevitably  occupies  so  nuich  of  his  own  thoughts  ; 
at  the  same  time,  as  he  cannot  but  have  formed  his 
own  theory  after  his  own  temperament,  consciously 
or  not,  he  must  experience  a  certain  discomfort  when 
he  encounters  other  theories  based  on  temperaments 
alien  from  his  own.  You  have,  in  fact,  the  converse 
of  Stendhal's  statement  that  every  commendation 
from  confrereto  confrere  is  a  certificate  of  resemblance ; 
every  sign  of  unlikeness  provokes  the  opposite  of 
commendation.  So  I  took  up  with  somewhat  mixed 
feelings  an  important  leading  article  in  tiie  Literary 
Supplement  on  "  The  Function  of  Criticism." 
Important  because  its  subject  is,  as  Henry  James 
said  once  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward, 
among  "  the  highest  speculations  that  can  engage 
the  human  mind."  (Oho  1  I  should  like  to  hear 
Mr.  Bottles  or  any  other  Jionime  sensuel  moyen  on 
that  !)      Well,  after  reading  the  article,  I  have  the 

78 


THE    FUNCTION    OF    CRITICISM 

profoundest  respect  for  the  writer,  whoever  he  may 
be  ;  he  knows  what  he  is  talking  about  au  fond, 
and  can  talk  admirably  about  it.  liut  then  comes 
in  that  inevitable  recalcitrancy.  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  the  writer  is  right,  then  most  art  and  criticism 
are  on  the  \\Tong  tack.  Maybe  they  are — the  ^\Titer 
evidently  thinks  they  are — but  one  cannot  accept 
that  uncomfortable  conclusion  offhand,  and  so  one 
cannot  but  ask  oneself  whether  the  writer  is  right, 
after  all. 

He  is  certainly  ^^Tong  about  Croce.  The  ideal 
critic,  he  says,  "  will  not  accept  from  Croce  the  thesis 
that  all  expression  is  art  ;  for  he  knows  that  if 
expression  means  anything  it  is  by  no  means  all  art." 
Now  the  very  foundation-stone  of  the  Croccan 
ffisthetic  is  that  art  is  the  expression  of  intuitions  ; 
when  you  come  to  concepts,  or  the  relations  of 
intuitions,  though  the  expression  of  them  is  art,  the 
concepts  themselves  (what  "  expression  means ") 
arc  not  ;  you  will  have  passed  out  of  the  region  of 
art.  Thus  your  historian,  logician,  or  zoologist, 
say,  has  a  style  of  his  own  ;  that  side  of  him  is  art. 
But  historical  judgments,  logic,  or  zoology  are  not. 
Croce  discusses  this  distinction  exhaustively,  and,  I 
should  have  thought,  clearly.  Yet  here  our  leader- 
writer  puts  forward  as  a  refutation  of  Croce  a  state- 
ment carefully  made  by  Croce  himself.  But  this 
is  a  detail  which  does  not  affect  the  writer's  main 
position.  I  only  mention  it  as  one  of  the  many 
misrepresentations  of  Croce  which  students  of  tliat 

79 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

philosopher  are,  by  this  time,  used  to  accepting  as, 
apparently,  inevitable. 

Now,  says  the  writer,  the  critic  must  have  a 
philosophy  and,  what  is  more,  a  philosophy  of  a 
certain  sort.  That  the  critic  must  have  a  philosophy 
we  should,  I  suppose,  all  aorcc  ;  for  the  critic  is  a 
historian,  and  a  historian  without  a  theory  of 
realities,  a  system  of  values,  i.e.,  a  philosophy,  has  no 
basis  for  his  judgments — he  is  merely  a  chronicler. 
(And  a  chronicler,  let  me  say  in  passing,  is  precisely 
what  I  should  call  the  writer's  "  historical  critic  " 
— who  "  essentially  has  no  concern  with  the  greater 
or  less  literary  excellence  of  the  objects  whose  history 
he  traces — their  existence  is  alone  sudieient  for  him.") 
But  what  particular  philosophy  must  the  critic 
have  ?  It  must  be,  says  the  writer,  "  a  humanistic 
philosophy.  His  inquiries  must  be  modulated,  and 
subject  to  an  intimate,  organic  governance  by  an 
ideal  of  the  good  life."  Beware  of  confusing  this 
ideal  of  good  life  with  mere  conventional  morality. 
Art  is  autonomous  and  therefore  independent  of  that. 
No  ;  "  an  ideal  of  the  good  life,  if  it  is  to  have  the 
internal  coherence  and  the  organic  force  of  a  true 
ideal,  must  inevitably  be  ajsthctic.  There  is  no  other 
power  than  our  aesthetic  intuition  by  which  we  can 
imagine  or  conceive  it ;  we  can  express  it  only  in 
aesthetic  terms."  And  so  we  get  back  to  Plato  and 
the  Platonic  ideas  and,  generally,  to  "  the  Greeks  for 
the  principles  of  art  and  criticism."  "  The  secret  " 
of  the  humanistic  philosophy  "  lies  in  Aristotle." 

80 


THE    FUNCTION    OF    CRITICISM 

But  is  not  this  attempt  to  ciistinf,niish  between 
conventional  morality  and  an  ideal  of  the  good  life, 
jesthetically  formed,  rather  specious  ?  At  any  rate, 
the  world  at  large,  for  a  good  many  centuries,  has 
applauded,  or  discountenanced,  Greek  criticism  as 
essentially  moralistic — as  importing  into  the  region 
of  aesthetics  the  standards  of  ordinary,  conventional 
morality.  That  is,  surely,  a  commonj)lace  about 
Aristotle.  Ilis  ideal  tragic  hero  is  to  be  neither 
saint  nor  utter  villain,  but  a  character  between  these 
two  extremes.  Further,  he  must  be  illustrious,  like 
CEdipus  or  Thyestes  (Poetics,  ed.  Butcher,  XIII.  3). 
Again,  tragedy  is  an  imitation  of  persons  who  are 
above  the  common  level  (XV.  8).  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  standards  aj)plied  here  are  those  of  our 
ordinary,  or  eon\entional,  morality,  and  I  am  only 
confused  by  the  introduction  of  the  mysterious 
"  ideal  of  the  good  life.''  It  seems  to  me — that  may 
be  my  stupidity — but  it  seemed  so,  also,  to  our  fore- 
fathers, for  it  was  this  very  moralism  of  Greek 
criticism  that  led  men  for  so  many  centuries  to 
demand  "  instruction  "  from  art.  And  that  is  why 
it  was  such  a  feather  in  Dryden's  cap  (Drydcn,  of 
whom  our  leader-writer  has  a  ])oor  opinion,  as  a 
critic  without  a  philosophy)  to  have  said  the 
memorable  and  decisive  thing :  "  delight  is  the 
chief  if  not  the  only  end  of  j)oesy  ;  iiislruetion  can 
be  admitted  but  in  the  second  place,  for  |)()esy  only 
instructs  as  it  delights." 

This  "  ideal  of  good  life  "  leads  our  Kader-writcr 

p.p.  81  o 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

far — away  up  into  the  clouds.  Among  the  activities 
of  the  human  spirit  art  takes  "  the  place  of  sove- 
reignty." It  "  is  the  manifestation  of  the  ideal  in 
human  life."  This  attitude,  of  course,  will  not  be 
altogether  unfamiliar  to  students  of  aesthetics. 
Something  not  unlike  it  has  been  heard  before  from 
the  "  mystic  "  aestheticians  of  a  century  ago.  It 
leaves  me  unconvinced.  I  cannot  but  think  that 
that  ])hilosophy  makes  out  a  better  case  which  assigns 
to  art,  as  intuition-expression,  not  the  "  place  of 
sovereignty  "  but  the  place  of  foundation  in  the 
liuman  sj^irit ;  for  which  it  in  not  flower  nor  fruit, 
but  root.  You  see,  Croce,  like  "  cheerfulness  "  in 
Boswcll's  story  of  the  otlier  philosopher,  will  come 
"  breaking  in." 


82 


COTERIE    CRITICISM 

A  YOUNG  critic  was  recently  so  obliging  as  to  send 
me  the  proof  of  an  article  in  the  hope  that  I  might 
find  something  in  it  to  interest  me.  I  did,  but  not, 
I  imagine,  what  was  expected.  The  article  discussed 
a  modern  author  of  European  reputation,  and  inci- 
dentally compared  liis  mind  and  his  style  with  that 
of  Mr.  X.,  Mrs.  Y.,  and  Miss  Z.  These  three,  it 
appeared,  were  contemporary  English  novelists,  and 
— here  was  the  interesting  thing  to  me  in  our  young 
critics  article — I  had  never  heard  of  one  of  them. 
They  were  evidently  "  intellectuals  " — the  whole 
tenor  of  the  article  showed  that — the  idols  of  some 
young  and  naturally  solemn  critical  "  school," 
familiar  classics,  I  dare  say,  in  Chelsea  studios  and 
Girton  or  Newnham  rooms.  One  often  wonders 
what  these  serious  young  ])coj)le  are  reading,  and 
here,  it  seemed,  was  a  valuable  light.  They  nnist  be 
reading,  at  all  events,  Mr.  X.,  and  Mrs,  Y.,  and 
Miss  Z.  Otherwise,  our  young  critic  would  never 
have  referred  to  them  with  such  gra\ity  and  with 
so  confident  an  assumption  that  his  i)artieular  set 
of  readers  would  know  all  about  tlicin.  And  yet  the 
collocation    of    these    three    names,    these    coterie 

88  G   2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

classics,  with  tliat  ol  the  great  P^uropean  author, 
famous  througliout  the  whole  world  of  })olite  letters, 
struck  one  as  infinitely  grotesque.  It  showed  so 
naive  a  confusion  of  literary  "  values,"  so  queer  a 
sense  of  proportion  and  eongruity.  It  was,  in  short, 
coterie  criticism. 

There  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of  that  about  just 
now.  One  sees  innumerable  reviews  of  innumerable 
poets,  which  one  supposes  to  l)e  written  by  other 
poets,  so  solemnly  do  the  writers  take  their  topic 
and  their  author  and  themselves.  And  for  the 
most  part  this  writing  bears  the  mark  of  "  green, 
unknowing  youth  ' — the  bland  assumption  that 
literature  was  invented  yesterday,  and  that,  since 
the  Armistice,  we  cannot  but  require  a  brand-new 
set  of  literary  canons,  estimates,  and  evaluations. 
Evidently  our  young  warriors  have  come  back  from 
the  front  with  their  sj)irit  of  camaraderie  still  glow- 
ing within  them.  Well,  youth  will  be  served,  and 
we  must  resign  ourselves,  with  a  helpless  shrug,  to  a 
deluge  of  crude  over-estimates,  enthusiastic  magni- 
fications of  the  ephemeral,  and  solenm  examinations 
of  the  novels  of  Mr.  X.,  Mrs.  Y.,  and  Miss  Z.  And 
we  must  be  ]irepared  to  see  the  old  rei)utations 
going  down  like  a  row  of  nine])ins.  We  shall  have 
to  make  a  polite  affectation  of  listening  to  the  young 
gentlemen  who  dismiss  Meredith  as  "  pretentious  " 
and  tell  us  that  Hardy  "  cant  write  '"  and  that 
Anatole  France  is  vieux  jeu.  Vox  if  you  are  always 
adoring  the  new  because  it  is  new,  then  you  may  as 

84 


COTERIE    CRITICISM 

well  make  a  complete  thing  of  it  by  decrying  the  old 
because  it  is  old.  The  breath  you  can  spare  from 
puffing  the  "  Georgians  *'  up  you  may  as  well  use 
for  puffing  the  '"  Victorians  '"  out.  And  thus  the 
world  wags. 

\Vhat  is  more,  it  is  thus  that  the  history  of  litera- 
ture gets  itself  evolved.  For  it  is  time  that  I  tried 
to  see  what  good  can  be  said  of  the  coteries,  as  well 
as  what  ill,  and  this,  I  think,  can  be  said  for  them — 
that  they  keep  the  ball  rolling.  It  is  they,  with 
their  foolish  face  of  praise,  who  discover  the  new 
talents  and  begin  the  new  movements.  If  you  are 
always  on  the  pounce  for  novelties  you  must  occa- 
sionally "  spot  a  winner  '  and  lind  a  novelty  that  the 
outer  world  ratifies  into  a  permanency.  The  minor 
Elizabethan  dramatists  were  once  the  darlings  of  a 
coterie,  but  Webster  and  one  or  two  others  still  sur- 
vive. The  Lakists  were  once  coterie  poets,  and,  if 
Southey  has  petered  out,  Wordsworth  remains.  Of 
course  the}'  make  awful  "howlers."  A  coterie 
started  tiie  vogue  of  that  terribly  tiresome  "  Jean 
Christophe,  '  of  Romain  Holland,  and  where  is  it  now  ? 
On  the  other  hand,  a  coterie  "  discovered  *  Pater,  and 
it  was  a  real  find  ;  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die 
"Marius"  or  the  "Renaissance."  Henry  James  began 
as  the  idol  of  a  coterie,  and  "  The  Golden  Bowl  "  is 
not  yet  broken.  It  may  be-  who  knows?  that  the 
novels  of  Mr.  X.,  .Mrs.  V.,  and  Miss  Z.  will  by  and 
by  range  themselves  pioiully  «>n  our  selves  alongside 
Fielding  and  .Jane  and  McM-ditli  and  llanly. 

«5 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

But  while  these  young  reputations  are  still  to 
make  in  the  great  world,  let  us  not,  as  Mrs.  Gamp 
says,  proticipate  ;  let  us  keep  our  high  estimate  of 
them  modestly  to  ourselves,  and  not  stick  them  up 
on  the  classic  shelf  among  the  best  bindings  before 
their  time.  What  makes  it  worse  is  that  the  coteries 
are  apt  to  have  no  classic  shelf.  Their  walls  are  lined 
:md  their  boudoir  tables  littered  with  new  books, 
II nd  nothing  but  new  books.  Women  are  great 
offenders  in  this  way,  especially  the  women  whom 
American  journals  call  "  Society  Ladies  " — who  are 
accustomed,  in  the  absence  of  contradiction  and 
criticism  and  other  correctives  (tabooed  as  "  bad 
form  "),  to  mistake  their  wayward  fancies  for  con- 
sidered judgments.  We  want  a  modern  Moliere  to 
write  us  another  Femmes  Savantes.  (I  present  the 
idea  to  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  They  have  dubbed  him 
"  the  English  Moliere."  Well,  here's  a  chance  for 
him  to  make  good.)  There  is  Lady  Dulcibclla.  She 
is  always  recommending  you  a  new  book  that  nobody 
else  has  ever  heard  of.  "  Oh,  how  perfectly  sweet 
of  you  to  call  on  this  horrid  wet  afternoon  !  Have 
you  read  '  Mes  Larmes  '  ?  It's  written  by  a  Russian 
actress  with  such  wonderful  red  hair,  you  can't 
think,  and  they  say  she  was  a  princess,  until  those 
dreadful  Bolshevists,  you  know.  We  met  her  at 
Florence  in  the  winter,  and  everybody  said  she  was 
just  like  one  of  the  Botticellis  in  the  Accadcmia. 
They  do  say  that  Guide  da  Verona — or  D'Annunzio, 
or   somebody    (don't   you   think   that    horrid   little 

8G 


COTERIE    CRITICISM 

D'Annunzio  is  just  like  a  frog  ?) — was  quite  mad 
about  her.  But '  Mes  Larmes  '  is  perfectly  sweet,  and 
dont  forget  to  order  it.  Two  lumps  or  three  ?  " 
And  listen  to  the  chatter  of  some  of  those  wonder- 
fully bedizened  ladies  who  variegate,  if  they  dont 
exactly  decorate,  the  stalls  of  one  of  our  Sunday 
coterie  theatres.  The  queer  books  they  rave  about  ! 
The  odd  Moldo-Wallachian  or  Syro-Phoenician  dra- 
matists they  have  discovered  ! 

All  this,  it  is  only  fair  to  remember,  may  leave 
our  young  critic  inviolate.  After  all,  he  may  belong 
to  no  coterie,  or  only  to  a  coterie  of  one  ;  he  may 
have  sound  critical  reasons  for  the  faith  that  is  in 
him  about  Mr.  X.,  and  Mrs.  Y.,  and  Miss  Z.  And 
even  if  he  does  rei^resent  a  coterie,  he  might,  I  sup- 
pose, find  a  fairly  effective  retort  to  some  of  my 
observations.  "  You  talk  of  our  love  of  novelties 
for  novelty's  sake.  But  you  have  admitted  that,  if 
we  always  go  for  the  new,  we  must  sometimes  light 
on  the  true.  What  we  really  go  for  is  life.  The  new 
is  more  lively  than  the  old.  The  actual,  the  present, 
the  world  we  are  at  this  moment  living  in,  has  more 
to  say  to  us  in  literature  than  the  old  dead  world, 
the  '  sixty  years  since  '  of  your  classic  Scott.  The 
classic,  as  Stendhal  said,  is  what  pleased  our  grand- 
fathers ;  but  I  am  out  to  please  my  grandfather's 
grandson.  And  our  coteries,  I  dare  say,  are  often 
kept  together  by  the  mere  docility  of  mind,  the 
imitative  instinct,  of  their  members.  But  is  there 
not  a  good  deal  of  mere  docility  among  the  old  fogey 

87 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

party,  the  people  who  reject  the  new  because  it  is 
new  and  admire  the  old  because  it  is  old  ?  Is  not 
this  mere  imitative  instinct  at  work  also  among  the 
upholders  of  literary  traditions  and  the  approved 
classics  ?  Absurdity  for  absurdity,  the  youthful 
coterie  is  no  worse  than  the  old  fogey  crowd."  To 
put  all  straight  I  will  now  go  and  read  the  novels  of 
Mr.  X.,  Mrs.  Y.,  and  Miss  Z. 


88 


CRITICISM    AND    CREATION 

A  PLAY  of  Drj'dc'irs  has  been  successfully  rcvi\cd 
by  the  Phoenix  Society.  One  or  two  others  might 
be  tried,  but  not  many.  For  most  of  Drj'den "s  plays, 
as  tJK"  curious  may  satisfy  themselves  by  reading 
them,  are  as  dead  as  a  doornail.  They  bore  us  in  the 
reading,  and  would  simply  drive  us  out  of  the  theatre. 
Some  of  Drydens  non-dramatic  poems  still  permit 
themselves  to  be  read,  but  the  permission  is  rarely 
sought  by  modern  readers,  apart  from  candidates 
for  some  academic  examination  in  English  literature, 
who  have  no  choice.  Yet  we  all  render  him  lip 
service  as  u  great  poet.  How  many  are  there  to 
pay  him  propt-r  homage  as  a  great  critic  ?  For  a 
great  critic  he  was,  and,  moreover,  our  first  dranuitic 
critic  in  time  as  well  as  in  importance.  He  discussed 
not  the  details  of  this  or  that  play,  but  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  drama.  lie  abounded  in  ideas, 
and  expressed  them  witli  a  con\ersational  ease 
which,  in  his  time,  was  an  entirely  new  thing.  IJut 
it  would  lie  imjiert incut  to  j^raise  Drydens  prose 
style  alter  .Johnsons  exhausli\c-  eulogy  and  the 
delicate  aj)j)reeiations  of  Professor  Ker.  What  I 
would  point  out  is  that  all  Drydens  critical   work 

81) 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

can  still  be  read  ^vith  pleasure,  while  most  of  his 
dramatic  work  cannot  be  read  at  all.  And  the 
humour  of  it  is  that  I  shall  at  once  be  told  the 
dramatic  work  was  "  creative,"  while  the  critical 
was  not. 

This  distinction,  an  essentially  false  one,  as  I  shall 
hope  to  show,  is  still  a  great  favourite  with  our 
authors  of  fiction  ;  they  "  create,"  their  critics  do 
not.  Authors  who  write,  in  Flaubert's  phrase,  like 
cochers  de  fiacre,  and  who  arc  particularly  given  to 
this  contrast,  it  would  be  cruel  to  deprive  of  a 
comforting  illusion  ;  but  authors  of  merit  and  repute 
also  share  it,  and  to  them  I  would  urge  my  modest 
plea  for  a  reconsideration  of  the  matter. 

What  does  the  dramatist,  or  writer  of  fiction  in 
general,  create  ?  Actions  and  characters  ?  Not  so, 
for  these  are  only  created  in  real  life,  by  the  contend- 
ing volitions  of  real  men  and  the  impact  between 
their  volitions  and  external  reality.  The  author 
creates  images  of  actions  and  characters,  or,  in  other 
words,  expresses  his  intuitions  of  life.  When  the 
intuition  is  vivid,  when  the  image  is  a  Falstaff,  a 
Baron  llulot,  a  Don  Quixote,  a  Colonel  Newcome, 
we  are  apt  to  think  of  it  as  a  real  person.  And  they 
arc,  in  truth,  as  real  to  us  as  anybody  in  the  actual 
world  whom  we  have  never  met  but  only  know  of. 
For  the  historic  person,  unmet,  is,  just  like  the 
imaginary  person,  only  a  bundle  for  us  of  our 
intuitions.  Julius  Ca,'sar  was  a  real  person,  but  we 
can  only  know  of  him,  as  we  know  of  Mr.  Pickwick, 

90 


CRITICISM    AND    CREATION 

by  hearsay.  These  vivid  intuitions  are  what  your 
author  likes  to  call  "  creations."  So  they  arc. 
Tliat  is  the  magic  of  art. 

And  because,  to  the  vast  majority  of  men,  their 
intuitions  (in  the  case  of  actual  reality  encountered, 
their  perceptions)  of  other  men  and  their  actions 
are  their  most  interesting  experience,  art  is  allowed 
without  challenge  to  arrogate  to  itself  this  quality 
of  "  creation."  There  is  a  biographical  dictionary 
of  Balzac's  personages — some  2,000,  if  I  remember 
rightly — of  whom  a  few  are  actual  historical  people. 
But,  in  fact,  you  make  no  distinction.  The  one 
set  are  as  real  to  you  as  the  others.  In  this  way  the 
Comedie  Ilumaine  does,  as  its  author  said,  compete 
with  the  Etat  Civil.  There  are  few  ideas,  specu- 
lations, judgments  in  Balzac  that  are  worth  a  rap  ; 
when  he  tried  abstract  thought  he  was  apt  to 
achieve  nonsense.  But  very  few  readers  want 
abstract  thought.  They  want  "  to  know  people," 
"  to  see  people."  Balzac  makes  "  people,"  tells  you 
all  about  their  families,  their  incomes,  their  loves  and 
hates,  "  splendours  and  miseries,"  their  struggles, 
their  orgies,  their  squalor,  their  death.  That  is 
"  creative  "  art.  Let  us  admire  it.  Let  us  revel 
in  it.     Let  us  be  profoundly  thankful  for  it. 

But  when,  as  so  frequently  happens,  one  hears 
some  fourteenth-rate  yarn-spinner,  who  also  makes 
"  people,"  but  ))copIc  who  were  not  worth  juaking, 
people  who  arc-  puppets  or  I  lie  men-  plKuitonis  of 
a  greensick  brain — when  one  hears  this  gentleman 

91 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

claiming  kinship  with  Balzac  or  with  my  friend  the 
distinguished  novelist  and  real  artist  already 
mentioned,  as  a  "  creator  "  one  is  inclined  to  smile. 
"  Creation  '  is  a  blessed  word.  But  the  thing 
created  may  be  quite  valueless. 

And  so  it  is,  precisely,  with  criticism.  For 
criticism  is  also  "  creative.  "  But  it  does  not  create 
images  of  people  or  their  lives  ;  it  creates  thought, 
ideas,  concepts.  That  is,  it  builds  up  something 
new  out  of  the  artist's  intuitions  and  exhibits  the 
relations  between  them.  Here,  in  the  conceptual 
world,  we  are  in  a  different  region  from  the  intuitional 
world  of  the  artist.  Those  who  care  to  enter  it,  who 
feel  at  home  in  it,  are  comparatively  few ;  the 
absence  of  personal  interest,  of  "  people,"  makes  it 
seem  cold  to  the  average,  gregarious  man.  "  People  "' 
are  a  natural,  ideas  an  acquired,  taste.  But  the 
one  set  are  just  as  much  a  "  creation  ""  as  the  other. 
And  in  the  one  set  just  as  in  the  other  the  thing 
created  may  not  be  worth  creating.  Ideas,  expo- 
sitions, illustrations  in  criticism  have  a  distressing 
habit  of  being  as  poor  and  conventional  and  nicciiani- 
eal  as  many  a  novelists  or  playwrights  characters 
and  life  histories.  There  is  not  a  pin  to  choose 
between  them.  For  as  the  one  thing  that  matters 
in  art  is  the  artist  behind  it,  so  the  critic  behind  it 
is  the  one  thing  that  matters  in  criticism. 

These  are  elementary  commonplaces.  But  they 
need  restating  from  time  to  time.  For  the  average 
man,  with  all  his  interest  in  life  fixed  on  "  people," 

92 


CRITICISM    AND    CREATION 

is  always  falling  into  the  error  that  the  novelist  or 
playwright  makes  something,  while  the  critic  makes 
nothing.  And  your  fourteenth-rate  author,  sharing 
the  temperament  of  the  average  man,  falls  into  the 
same  error  and  seems,  indeed,  inordinately  proud 
of  it.  He  seems  to  say  :  "  Why,  you,  good  master 
critic,  couldn't  even  begin  to  do  what  I,  the 
'  creative  '  artist,  do  "  ;  and  he  would  probably  be 
surprised  by  the  answer  that  it  is  the  critic's  very 
critical  faculty,  his  endowment  of  judgment  and 
taste,  which  makes  the  writing  of  bad  plays  or 
novels  impossible,  because  repugnant  to  him.  It  is 
precisely  because  the  critical  faculty  is  so  rare  a 
thing  that  so  many  bad  novels  and  plaj's  get  them- 
selves written. 

But  enough  of  these  sharp  distinctions  between 
the  "  creation  '  of  images  and  the  "  creation  "  of 
concepts  !  Is  not  a  union  of  the  two,  like  the  union 
of  butler  and  lady's-maid,  as  described  by  Mr. 
Crichton,  "  the  happiest  of  all  combinations  "  ? 
Who  does  not  feel  how  immensely  the  mere  story 
part  of  "  Tom  Jones  "  gains  by  the  critical  chapter 
introductions  ?  And,  on  the  other  hand,  how  the 
mere  critical  part  of  Dryden's  "  Essay  of  Dramatic 
Poesy  "  gains  by  the  little  touches  of  story,  from 
the  opening  moment  when  "  they  ordered  the 
watermen  to  let  fall  their  oars  more  gently  "  to  the 
close  at  Somerset  Stairs,  where  ''  they  went  up 
through  a  crowd  of  French  people,  who  were  merrily 
dancing  in  the  open  air  "  ? 

93 


ACTING    AND    CRITICISM 

A  VETERAN  who  has  been  regaling  the  readers  of 
The  Times  with  his  recollections  of  the  London  stage 
has  dropped  by  the  way  a  remark  on  modern 
theatrical  criticism.  For  it,  he  says,  "  the  play  is 
everything,  and  the  leading  actor  or  actress  has 
often  to  be  content  with  a  few  lines."  Dean 
Gaisford  began  a  sermon,  "  Saint  Paul  says,  and  I 
partly  agree  with  him."'  I  partly  agree  with  the 
veteran.  Criticism  has  occasionally  to  deal  with 
plays  that  cannot  be  "  everything  "  for  it.  There 
arc  new  plays  that  are  merely  a  vehicle  for  the  art 
of  the  actor,  who  must  then  get  more  than  a  few  lines. 
There  are  old  plays  revived  to  show  a  new  actor  in  a 
classic  part,  and  the  part  is  then  greater  than  the 
whole.  This,  I  think,  accounts  for  "  the  space 
devoted  to  the  acting  in  London  criticisms  at  the 
time  Henry  Irving  rose  to  fame."  Either  he 
appeared  in  new  plays  of  little  intrinsic  merit,  like 
The  Bells,  or  else  in  classic  parts  of  melodrama 
(made  classic  by  Fred-^ric  Lemaitre)  or  of  Shake- 
speare. In  these  conditions  criticism  nnist  always 
gravitate  towards  the  acting.  It  did  so,  long  before 
Irving's  time,  with  Ilazlitt  over  Edmund  Kean.     It 

04 


ACTING     AND    CRITICISM 

has  done  so,  since  Trving's  time,  over  Sarah  and 
Duse,  and  must  do  so  again  over  every  new  Shylock 
or  Millamant  or  Sir  Peter. 

But  these  conditions  are  exceptional,  and  it  is 
well  for  the  drama  that  they  are.  For  the  vitality 
of  the  drama  primarily  depends  not  upon  the  talent 
of  its  interpreters  but  on  that  of  its  creators,  and  a 
new  image  or  new  transposition  of  life  in  a  form 
appropriate  to  the  theatre  is  more  important  than 
the  perfection  of  the  human  instrument  by  which  it 
is  "  made  flesh."  If  criticism,  then,  has  of  late  years 
and  on  the  whole  been  able  to  devote  more  attention 
to  the  play  than  to  the  playing,  I  suggest  to  our 
veteran  that  the  fact  is  a  healthy  sign  for  our  drama. 
It  shows  that  there  have  been  plays  to  criticise  and 
that  criticism  has  done  its  duty. 

But  that,  I  hasten  to  add,  is  its  luck  rather  than 
its  merit.  One  must  not  ride  the  high  ethical  horse, 
and  I  should  be  sorry  to  suggest  that  good  criticism 
is  ever  written  from  a  sense  of  duty,  any  more  than  a 
good  play  or  any  other  piece  of  good  literature. 
Good  criticism  is  written  just  because  the  critic  feels 
like  that — and  bad,  it  may  be  added,  generally  be- 
cause the  critic  has  been  trying  to  write  something 
which  he  supposes  ether  people  will  feel  like.  The 
good  critic  writes  with  his  temperament — and  here 
is  a  reason  why,  in  the  long  run,  plays  will  interest 
him  more  than  players.  For  are  we  not  all  agreed 
about  the  first  principle  of  criticism  ?  Is  it  not  to 
put  yourself  in  the  place  of  the  artist  criticized,  to 

95 


PASTICHE    AND    PKEJTTDTCE 

adopt  his  point  of  view,  to  recreate  his  work  within 
yourself?  Well,  the  critic  can  put  himself  in  the 
place  of  the  playwright  much  more  readily  than  into 
that  of  the  actor.  The  playwrifrht  and  he  are  work- 
ing in  different  ways,  with  much  the  same  material, 
ideas,  and  images,  or,  if  you  like,  concepts  and  intui- 
tions mainly  expressed  in  words — which  is  only  a 
long  way  of  saying  that  they  arc  both  authors.  And 
they  have  in  common  the  literary  temperament. 
Now  the  literary  temperament  and  the  histrionic  arc 
two  very  different  things. 

The  actor,  as  his  very  name  imports,  is  an  active 
man,  a  man  of  action.  At  his  quietest,  he  perambu- 
lates the  stage.  But  violent  physical  exercise  is  a 
part  of  his  trade.  He  fights  single  combats,  jumps 
into  open  graves,  plunges  into  lakes,  is  swallowed 
down  in  quicksands,  sharpens  knives  on  the  sole  of 
his  boot,  deftly  catches  jewel  caskets  thrown  from 
upper  windows,  wrestles  with  heavy-weight  cham- 
pions, knouts  or  is  knouted,  stabs  or  is  stabbed,  rolls 
headlong  down  staircases,  writhes  in  the  agonies  of 
poison,  and  is  (or  at  any  rate  in  the  good  old  days 
was)  kicked,  pinched,  and  pummelled  out  of  the 
limelight  by  the  "  star."'  And  all  this  under  the 
handicaj)  of  greasc-])aint  and  a  wig  !  It  must  be 
very  fatiguing.  But  then  he  enjoys  the  physical 
advantages  of  an  active  life.  He  has  Sir  Willoughby 
Pattcrne's  leg  (under  trousers  that  never  l)ag  at  the 
knee,  and  terminating  in  boots  of  the  shiniest  patent 
leather),  and  all  the  rest  to  match.     As  becomes  a 

96 


ACTING    AND    CRITICISM 

man  of  action,  he  is  no  reader.  I  have  heard  the 
late  Mr.  Henry  Neville  declare  that  an  actor  should 
never  be  allowed  to  look  at  a  book.  This  may  seem 
to  the  rest  of  us  a  sad  fate  for  him,  but  look  at  his 
compensations  !  lie  spends  much,  if  not  most,  of 
his  stafjc-life  making  love  to  pretty  women,  wives, 
widows,  or  ingetnies.  Frequently  he  kisses  them,  or 
seems  to — for  he  will  tell  you,  the  rogue,  that  stage- 
kisses  are  always  delivered  in  the  air.  Let  us  say 
then  that  he  is  often  within  an  inch  of  kissing  a 
pretty  woman — which  is  already  a  considerable 
privilege.  When  he  is  not  kissing  her  (or  the  air,  as 
the  case  may  be),  he  is  sentimentally  bidding  her  to  a 
nunnery  go  or  dying  in  picturesque  agonies  at  her 
feet.  Anyhow  he  goes  through  his  work  in  the 
society  and  with  the  active  co-operation  of  pretty 
women.  And  note,  for  it  is  an  enormous  advantage 
to  him,  that  that  work  is  a  fixed,  settled  thing.  His 
words  have  been  invented  for  him  and  written  out 
in  advance.  lie  has  rehearsed  his  actions.  He 
knows  precisely  what  he  is  going  to  do. 

Contrast  with  this  alluring  picture  the  tempera- 
ment and  working  habits  of  the  critic.  He  is  a  man, 
not  of  action,  but  of  contemplation.  His  pursuit  is 
sedentary,  and  with  his  life  of  forced  iiuiction  he 
risks  becoming  as  fat  as  Mr.  dJibbon,  without  the 
alleviation  of  the  Gibbonian  style.  Personal  advan- 
tages are  not  aids  to  comjiosition,  and  he  may  be  the 
ugliest  man  in  London,  like  G.  H.  Lewes,  whose 
dramatic  critieisnis,  nevertheless,  may  still   be  read 

PH.  97  H 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

with  pleasure.     His  fingers  are  inky.     His  face  is 
not  "  made  up,"  but  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast 
of  thought.     No  pretty  women  help  him  to  write  his 
criticisms.     Indeed,    if   Helen   of   Troy    herself,    or 
Aphrodite  new-risen  from  the  sea  came  into  his  study 
he  would  cry  out  with  writer's  petulance  (a  far  more 
prevalent  and  insidious  disease  than  writer's  cramp)» 
"  Oh,  do  please  go  away  !     Cant  you  see  I'm  not 
yet  through  my  second  slip  ?  "     (She  will  return 
when  he  is  out,  and  "  tidy  up  "  his  desk  for  him — a 
really  fiendish  revenge).     Uooks,  forbidden  to  the 
actor,  are  the  critic's  solace — and  also  his  despair, 
because  they  have  said  all  the  good  things  and  taken 
the  bread  out  of  his  mouth.     And,  unlike  the  actor, 
he  is  working  in  the  unknown.     His  head  is  filled 
with  a  chaos  of  half-formed  ideas  and  the  transient 
embarrassed    phantoms    of    logical    developments. 
Will  he  ever  be  able  to  sort  them  out  and  to  give 
them   at  any  rate  a   specious   appearance  of  con- 
tinuity ?     Nay,  can  he  foresee  the  beginning  of  his 
next  sentence,  or  even  finish  this  one  ?     Thus  he  is 
perpetually  on  the  rack.     *'  Luke's  iron  crown  and 
Damien's  bed  of  steel  "   arc  nothing  to  it.     It  is 
true  that  his  criticism  does,  mysteriously,  get  itself 
completed — mysteriously,  because  he  seems  to  have 
been  no  active  agent  in  it,   but  a  mere  looker-on 
while  it  somehow  wrote  itself. 

Is  it  surprising  that  it  should  generally  write  itself 
about  the  play  (which,  I  daresay,  writes  itself,  too, 
and  with  the  same  tormenting  anxiety)  rather  than 

98 


ACTING    AND    CRITICISM 

about  the  playing,  which  proceeds  from  so  different 
a  temperament  from  the  critic's  and  operates  in 
conditions  so  alien  from  his  ?  But,  let  me  add  for 
the  comfort  of  our  veteran,  there  are  critics  and 
critics.  If  some  of  us  displease  him  by  too  often 
sparing  only  a  few  lines  for  the  leading  actor  or 
actress,  there  will  always  be  plenty  of  others  who  are 
more  interested  in  persons  than  in  ideas  and  images, 
who  care  less  for  transpositions  of  life  than  for  Sarah's 
golden  voice  and  Duse's  limp,  and  "  Quin's  high 
plume  and  Oldfield's  petticoat."  These  will  redress 
the  balance. 


99 


ACTING    AS    ART 

Nothing  could  be  more  characteristically  En^lisli 
than  the  circumstances  which  gave  rise  the  other  day 
to  the  singidar  question,  "  Is  acting  an  art  ? " 
There  was  a  practical  issue,  whether  the  Royal 
Academy  of  Dramatic  Art  was  or  was  not  entitled 
to  exemption  under  an  Act  of  1843  from  the  payment 
of  rates.  Sir  John  Simon  argued  it,  of  course,  as  a 
practical  question.  He  dealt  with  custom  and 
precedent  and  authority,  dictionary  definitions  and 
judicial  decisions.  He  had  to  keep  one  eye  on 
esthetics  and  the  other  on  the  rates.  This  is  our 
traditional  English  way.  We  "  drive  at  practice." 
Nevertheless,  this  question  whether  acting  is  an  art 
is  really  one  of  pure  a;sthcties,  and  is  in  no  way 
affected  by  any  decision  of  the  Appeal  Committee 
of  the  London  County  Council. 

You  cannot  answer  it  until  you  have  made  up 
your  mind  what  you  mean  by  art.  Sir  John  Simon 
seems  to  have  suggested  that  art  was  something 
"  primarily  directed  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
oesthetic  sense."  IJut  is  there  any  such  thing  as  a 
special  "  aesthetic  sense  "  ?  Is  it  anything  more 
than  a  name  for  our  spiritual  reaction  to  a  work  of 

100 


ACTING    AS    ART 

art,  our  response  to  it  in  mind  and  feeling  ?  And 
are  we  not  arguing  in  a  circle  when  we  say  that  art 
is  what  provokes  the  response  to  art  ?  Perhaps  it 
might  amuse,  perhaps  it  might  irritate,  perhaps  it 
might  simply  bewilder  the  Appeal  Committee  of  the 
London  County  Comieil  to  tell  them  that  art  is  the 
expression  of  intuitions.  They  might  reply  that 
they  cannot  find  intuitions  in  the  rate-book,  and  that 
the  Act  of  ISJ'S  is  silent  about  them.  Yet  this  is 
what  art  is,  and  you  have  to  bear  it  in  mind  when 
you  ask,  "  Is  the  actor  an  artist  ?  "'  Art  is  a  spiritual 
activity,  and  the  artist's  expression  of  his  intuitions 
(the  jmintcr's  "  vision,"  the  actor's  "  conception  "' 
of  his  part)  is  internal ;  when  he  wishes  to  exter- 
nalize his  expression,  to  conununicate  it  to  others, 
he  has  to  use  certain  media — paint  and  canvas, 
marble  and  brick,  musical  notes,  words  and  gestures. 
Hut  it  is  the  spiritual  activity,  the  intuition-expres- 
sion, that  makes  the  artist.  The  medium  is  no  part 
of  his  definition. 

And  yet,  I  suggest,  it  is  the  j^eeuliarity  of  the 
actor's  medium  that  has  often  witliheld  from 
him,  at  any  rate  with  unthinking  people,  his  title 
to  rank  as  an  artist.  He  is  his  own  medium, 
his  own  paint  and  canvas,  his  own  l)rick  and 
marble.  The  works  of  other  artists,  the  picture, 
the  poem,  the  sonata,  have  an  independent  life,  they 
survive  their  authors ;  the  actor's  works  are  in- 
separa})le  from  his  actual  presence,  and  die  with  him. 
Hence  a  certain  dillieulty  for  the  unsoi)histicated  in 
101 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

distinguishing  the  artist  from  what  the  philosophers 
call  the  empirical  man  ;  the  Edmund  Kean  whose 
genius  is  illuminating  and  revitalizing  Shylock  from 
the  Edmund  Kean  who  is  notoriously  fond  of  the 
bottle  and  who  has  lately  got  into  trouble  with  an 
alderman's  wife.  The  physique,  the  temperament, 
of  the  empirical  man  furnish  the  medium  for  the 
artist.  He  arrives  at  the  theatre  in  a  taxi,  or  his 
own  Rolls-Royce,  smoking  a  big  cigar,  every  inch 
of  him  a  man  of  to-day  ;  the  next  moment  he  is 
pretending  to  be  an  old  mad  King  of  Britain.  This 
confusion  is  behind  Johnson's  "  fellow  who  claps  a 
hump  on  his  back  and  calls  himself  Richard  the 
Third."'  It  leaves  out  of  account  the  imaginative 
side  of  him,  the  artist.  Johnson  might  just  as  well 
have  dismissed  Shakespeare  as  a  "  fellow  who 
supposed  a  hump  clapped  on  the  back  of  one  of  his 
fancies,  which  he  calls  Richard  the  Third."  Lamb 
raised  another  objection,  that  the  bodily  presence 
of  the  actor  materialized,  coarsened,  the  finer 
elements  of  the  part — hid  from  sight  "  the  lofty 
genius,  the  man  of  vast  capacity,  the  profound,  the 
witty,  accomplished  Richard."  The  medium,  in 
other  words,  is  a  hindrance  to  the  art,  not  so  much 
a  medium  as  a  nuisance. 

These  are  the  objections  of  ignorance  or  of  whim. 
Certainly  the  peculiarity  of  his  medium  imposes 
peculiar  restrictions  on  the  actor.  If  the  painter 
lacks  a  certain  ])igment  he  can  get  it  at  the  colour- 
man's.  If  the  composer  needs  a  certain  timbre  he 
102 


ACTING    AS    ART 

can  add  the  necessary  instrument  to  his  orchestra. 
All  the  quarries  are  open  to  the  architect.  But  no 
"  make  up  "  box  will  furnish  a  resonant  voice  to  a 
shrill-piped  actor  or  make  Garrick  six  feet  high.  An 
actress  may  be  at  the  height  of  her  powers,  and  yet 
too  old  to  play  Juliet.  Sir  Henry  Irving's  physical 
oddities  went  far  to  ruin  some  of  his  impersonations. 
But  these  limitations  of  the  medium  do  not  affect 
the  actor's  status  as  an  artist.  They  only  restrict 
the  range  in  which  he  may  exercise  his  art. 

And  can  it  be  gainsaid  that  what  he  exercises  is 
true  art,  a  spiritual  activity,  the  expression  of  his 
intuitions  ?  People,  comparing  his  work  with  the 
"  creations  "  of  the  playwright,  arc  apt  to  speak  of 
him  as  a  mere  "  interpreter."  He  has  his  words 
given  him,  they  say,  and  his  significant  acts  pre- 
scribed for  him  in  advance.  The  truth  is,  "  creation  " 
and  "  interpretation  "  are  figurative  terms  ;  it  would 
be  quite  reasonable  to  intereiiange  tiicm.  Shake- 
speare "  interprets  "  life  by  gi\'ing  form  to  it,  by 
piecing  together,  say,  certain  scraps  of  actual  obser- 
vation along  witli  the  image  of  his  fancy  into  tlie 
character  of  Falstaff.  With  the  printed  words  and 
stage-directions  as  data,  the  actor  re-imagines 
Falstaff,  brings  his  own  temperament  and  fci-hngs 
and  sympathetic  vision  to  the  service  of  Sliake- 
speare's  indications,  and  "  creates "  the  living, 
moving  man.  True,  the  processes  are  at  different 
stages,  and  may  be  of  different  imi)()rtanee.  Shake- 
speare has  intuited  and  expressed  lite,  the  actor  has 

103 


PASTICHK    AND    PUEJUDUK 

intuited    and    expressed    Shakespeare,     But    both 
expressions  arc  art. 

And  note  that  wliile  Shakespeare  "  created  " 
Falstaff,  no  playgoer  has  ever  seen  or  ever  will  see 
Shakespeare's  Falstaff.  For  the  image  formed  in 
Shakespeare's  mind  has  always  on  the  stage  to  be 
translated  for  us  in  terms  of  other  minds  which  can 
never  be  identical  with  his — is,  in  fact,  "  re-created  " 
by  each  actor  in  turn.  It  is  the  actor  who  converts 
the  "  cold  print  "  of  the  text  into  vivid,  concrete 
life.  Life  !  that  is  the  secret  of  the  actor's 
"  following,"  a  much  more  notable  fact  in  the 
world  of  the  theatre  than  the  "  following  "  of  this 
or  that  playwright.  The  actor,  like  all  who,  in 
Buffons  phrase,  "  parlcnt  au  corps  par  le  corjjs,'"' 
expresses  a  temperament,  a  personality,  himself  ; 
imposes  himself  on  his  part  and  on  us.  People 
"  follow  "  a  favourite  actor  in  all  his  impersonations 
because  his  art  gives  them  more  pleasure  than  the 
playwright's,  or  because  his  art  nuist  be  added  to 
the  playwright's  before  they  will  care  about  that. 

When  I  say  "  people ''  I  don't  mean  "  littery 
gents."  The  typical  playgoer  prefers  life  to  litera- 
ture. He  is  as  a  rule  no  great  reader.  Nor  are  the 
actors.  There  has  always  been  a  certain  coolness 
between  the  men  of  letters  and  the  actors — their 
temj)eraments  are  so  o})i)osed.  I  have  (pioted  from 
Lamb.  Anatole  France  said  much  the  same  thing 
of  the  Comcdie  Fran^aisc — "  Leur  pcrsonne  efface 
I'cnivre  qu'ils  rcprc.scntent."'  Views  like  these  merely 
101 


ACTING    AS    ART 

express  a  preference  for  one  art  o^■e^  aiiothcr.  They 
do  not  contest  the  actor's  right  to  rank  as  an  artist. 
That,  to  speak  rigoronsly,  is  a  rank  held  by  many 
people  "  for  the  duration  " — i.e.,  wjiile  and  whenever 
they  express  their  intuitions.  But  it  would  be 
impolitic  to  insist  on  this  strict  view.  The  rate- 
payers' list  might  be  seriously  affected  and  much 
uneasiness  occasioned  to  the  Appeal  Committee  of 
the  London  Countv  Council. 


105 


AUDIENCES 

Audiences  may  be  divided  into  first-nighters, 
second-nighters,  and  general  playgoers.  All  audi- 
ences arc  important,  but  first-nighters  most  of  all. 
Without  them  the  acted  drama  would  not  begin  to 
exist.  For  obvious  reasons,  I  have  nothing  but  good 
to  say  of  them.  I  wish  to  live  at  peace  with  my 
neighbours.  And  I  do  not  believe  the  malicious 
story  told  about  a  manager,  now  dead,  that  he  liked 
to  fill  the  second  row  of  his  stalls  on  first-nights  with 
his  superannuated  sweethearts.  Nobody  is  fat  or 
old  in  Ba-ath,  and  there  are  no  superannuitants 
among  first-nighters. 

I  find,  from  Mr.  Max  Bcerbohm's  entirely  delight- 
ful book  "  Seven  Men,''  that  it  is  possible  to  get 
tired  of  first-nighters.  I  should  never  have  guessed 
it  myself.  But  this  is  what  he  says  : — "  I  was  dra- 
matic critic  for  the  Saturday  lieviezv,  and,  weary  of 
meeting  the  same  lot  of  people  over  and  over  again 
at  first  nights,  had  recently  sent  a  circular  to  the 
managers,  asking  that  I  might  have  seats  for  second 
nights  instead."  But  mark  what  follows  : — "  I 
found  that  there  existed  as  distinct  and  invariable 
a  lot  of  second-nighters  as  of  first-nighters.  The 
106 


AUDIENCES 

sccond-nightcrs  were  less  '  showy  '  ;  but  then,  they 
came  more  to  sec  than  to  be  seen,  and  there  was  an 
air  that  I  liked  of  earnestness  and  hopefulness  about 
them.  I  used  to  \sTite  a  good  deal  about  the  future 
of  the  British  drama,  and  they,  for  their  part,  used 
to  think  and  talk  a  great  deal  about  it.  Though 
sccond-nightcrs  do  come  to  sec,  they  remain  rather 
to  hope  and  pray."  Because  I  have  quoted  I  must 
not  be  understood  as  accepting  Mr.  Beerbohm's 
implied  aspersion  on  first-nighters.  It  is  all  very 
well  for  him.  He  has  retired  (the  more's  the  pity) 
from  dramatic  criticism.  But  I  take  his  account  of 
second-nightcrs  on  trust,  because  the  exigencies  of  a 
daily  newspaper  prevent  me  from  observing  them 
for  myself.  Evidently  they,  no  more  than  first- 
nighters,  are  average  plaj'goers. 

Not  that  I  would  disparage  the  general  playgoer. 
Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  not,  in  another 
sense  than  Labiehc's,  le  pluft  hcureux  ties  trois.  I 
can  speak  for  myself.  Mind,  I  am  saying  nothing 
against  first-nighters.  They  are  entirely  admirable 
persons— I  could  never  bring  myself,  like  Mr.  Iker- 
bohm,  to  call  them  a  lot.  But  oh  !  the  joy  of  being, 
on  holiday  occasions,  a  general  j^laygoer,  of  throwing 
one's  considering  cap  o\er  the  mills,  of  garnering  no 
impressions  for  future  "  copy,"  of  blithely  ignoring 
one's  better  judgment,  of  going  conif()rtal)ly  home 
from  the  play,  like  everyl^ody  else,  instead  of  dash- 
ing madly  into  a  taxi  for  the  newspaper  office  !  The 
j)l!iy  will  be  well  on  in  its  run,  the  eoniedian  will  have 
107 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

j)olished  up  his  jokes,  the  superfluities  will  have  been 
cut  out,  the  progranune  girls  will  long  since  have 
given  up  leading  the  applause,  you  won't  know  a 
sotil,  and  you  won't  e\en  bother  to  look  at  the 
author's  name.  You  surrender  your  individuality 
and  drift  with  the  crowd,  or,  in  more  pretentious 
language,  merge  yourself  in  the  collective  conscious- 
ness. 

Which  reminds  me.  The  general  playgoer  just 
because  he  is  general,  is  what  Henry  James  called 
George  Sand  :  remarkably  accessible.  Everybody 
knows  him.  He  is  a  public  theme.  Theorists  won't 
leave  him  alone.  In  particular,  the  collective  psy- 
chologists have  marked  him  for  their  ]">rey.  For 
them  he  typifies  the  theatrical  "  crowd,''  with  the 
peculiar  crowd  characteristics  these  theorists  pro- 
fess to  have  scientifically  classified.  Sarcey  began 
it.  Lemaitre  followed.  And  comparatively  obscure 
scribes  have  devoted  attention  to  the  general  play- 
goer. They  have  said  that  he  is  no  philosopher  ;  he 
cannot  adopt  a  detached,  impersonal,  disinterested 
view  of  life  ;  he  must  take  sides.  Hence  the  conven- 
tion of  the  ''  sympathetic  personage."  He  has  not 
the  judicial  faculty,  is  not  accustomed  to  sift  evi- 
dence or  to  estimate  probabilities.  Hence  the  con- 
vention of  the  "  long  arm  of  coincidence  "  and  the 
convention  that  the  wildest  improbability  may  be 
taken  as  the  starting-point  of  a  j)lay.  The  general 
playgoer,  as  such,  is  virtuous  and  generous  ;  for  we 
are  all  on  our  best  bchavioiir  in  public.     And   he 

108 


AUDIENCES 

insists  upon  a  strict  separation  of  virtue  and  viee. 
He  wants  his  personafjes  all  of  a  piece.  Tiie  com- 
posite ciiaracters,  blends  of  good  and  evil,  he  refuses 
to  recognize.  Hence  the  conventions  of  "  hero  " 
and  "  villain,''  of  "  poetic  justice  "  and  of  "  living 
happy  ever  afterwards."  Further,  it  has  been  sug- 
gested that  a  crowd  of  general  playgoers,  having  an 
individuality  of  its  own,  cannot  but  be  interested  in 
that  individuality,  apart  from  all  reference  to  the 
cause  which  brought  it  together.  Once  assembled, 
it  becomes  self-conscious,  self-assertive.  It  finds 
itself  an  interesting  spectacle.  And  the  general 
playgoer  is  not  of  the  cloistered  but  of  the  gregarious 
type  of  mankind  ;  he  must  have  bustle,  the  sense  of 
human  kinship  brought  home  to  him  by  sitting 
elbow  by  elbow  with  his  neighbours.  The  faculty 
of  intellectual  attention  is  seldom  high  in  such  a 
temperament  as  this.  Hence  the  playwright  has  to 
force  the  attention  of  a  temperamentally  inatten- 
tive audience.  Mark,  once  more,  that  I  am  not 
speaking  of  first-nighters.  Their  individuality  is 
too  strong  to  be  crowd-inunersed.  I  would  not  for 
worlds  speak  of  them  as  a  crowd  at  all.  They  are 
an  assemblage,  a  constellation,  a  galaxy.  Admirable 
persons  ! 

But  there  is  one  thing  lor  which  I  cii\y  the 
general  playgoer  above  all.  I  mean  his  freedom 
and  pungency  of  eritieism.  Anonymity  gi\is  him 
irresponsibility,  and,  his  resentment  at  being  bored 
not  being  subject  lo  tlu-  cooling  process  of  literary 

100 


PASTICHE    AND    PRP^JUDICE 

composition,  liis  language  is  apt  to  be  really  terrible. 
Talk  of  printed  criticism  !  Actors  and  authors  do 
talk  of  it  often  enough,  and  on  the  whole  don't  seem 
to  like  it ;  but  let  them  mingle  with  the  general 
playgoer  and  keep  their  ears  open  !  Who  was  the 
man  in  Balzac  who  said  that  it  was  absurd  to  speak 
of  the  danger  of  certain  books  when  we  all  had  the 
corrupt  book  of  the  world  open  before  us,  and 
beyond  that  another  book  a  thousand  times  more 
dangerous — all  that  is  whispered  by  one  man  to 
another  or  discussed  behind  ladies'  fans  at  balls  ? 
So  the  general  playgoer  is  the  great  purveyor  of 
secret  criticism.  Disraeli,  or  another,  said  that  the 
secret  history  of  the  world,  which  never  got  into  the 
history  books,  was  the  only  true  history.  Let  us 
hope  that  secret  criticism  is  not  the  only  true  sort, 
but  it  is  certainly  the  most  live.  It  is  free  from  the 
literary  bias,  the  cant  of  criticism,  the  smell  of  the 
lamp.  And  it  is  the  most  potent  of  persuasives. 
Published  criticism  is  powerless  against  it.  The  fate 
of  a  play  is  not  decided  by  newspaper  criticisms 
(thank  goodness  !  I  should  be  miserable  if  it  were), 
but  by  what  the  general  playgoers  say  to  one  another 
and  pass  on  to  their  friends.  How  many  plays  with 
"  record  "  runs  have  been  dismissed  by  the  news- 
papers on  the  morrow  of  the  first  night  with  faint 
praise  or  positive  dispraise  ?  The  general  playgoer 
has  said  his  say,  and  what  he  says  "  goes.''  I  know 
he  is  giving  many  worthy  people  just  now  much 
uneasiness.     They  form  little  theatrical  societies  d 

110 


AUDIENCES 

cote  to  keep  him  out.  They  deplore  his  taste  and 
organize  leagues  for  his  education  and  improve- 
ment. I  rather  fancy  he  is  like  the  young  lady  in 
the  play  who  "  didn't  want  to  have  her  mind  im- 
proved." But  that  is  another  story.  What  I  have 
been  en\'ying  him  for  is  not  his  taste  but  the  hearti- 
ness with  which  he  "  abounds  in  his  own  sense  "  and 
liis  freedom  in  expressing  it.  After  all,  perhaps  cri- 
ticism that  is  so  free  and  so  pervasive  and  so  potent 
is  not  exactly  to  be  called  "  secret."  I  seek  the  mot 
juste.  Or  I  would  if  that  were  not  a  back-number. 
Has  not  Mr.  Beerbohm  finally  put  it  in  its  place  as 
the  Holy  Grail  of  the  nineties  ? 


Ill 


FIRST    NIGHTS 

There  is  a  movement,  I  am  told,  in  certain 
critical  circles  in  favour  of  the  system  which  obtains 
in  Parisian  theatres  of  the  repetition  generale.  This, 
as  most  playgoers  know,  is  a  final  "  dress  rehearsal  ' 
held  on  the  evening  (at  the  Fran9ais,  where  evening 
performances  must  be  continuous,  on  the  afternoon) 
of  the  day  before  the  actual  "  first  night  "  pro- 
duction, or  premiere,  of  the  play.  The  seats, 
including  the  exceptionally  large  number  allotted 
in  Paris  to  the  Press,  are  filled  by  invitation.  It  is 
the  real  "  first  night  "  ;  only  there  is  no  "  money  " 
in  the  house.  Notoriously,  there  is  a  formidable 
cohort  of  Parisians  who  regard  their  seat  at  a 
repetition  generale  as  a  kind  of  vested  interest,  and 
who  would  be  affronted  by  having  to  put  up  with 
the  premiere.  A  very  remarkable  i)ublic  this  is,  the 
public  of  the  repetition  generale,  with  its  members 
virtually  all  known  to  one  another,  filling  the  foyer 
with  chatter  and  much  scent,  and  j)atiently  sitting 
through  a  performance  which  is  apt  to  begin  a 
good  half-hour  after  the  advertised  time,  and  to  end 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  The  inter-acts 
arc  of  iiiordinate  length,  j)erhaps  in  the  interests  of 

112 


FIRST    NIGHTS 

the  buffet,  more  likely  because  of  the  inveterate 
leisureliness  of  the  Parisians.  The  whole  thing,  at 
any  rate  as  I  have  found  it,  is  a  weariness  to  English 
flesh.  But  then  the  gentlemen  (and  ladies)  of  the 
Press  have  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  go  home 
straight  to  bed,  and  of  having  all  next  day  to  think 
over  their  "  notices." 

That  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  some  critics 
would  like  to  see  the  system  introduced  in  London. 
They  want  more  time.  They  want  to  sleep  on  it. 
They  would  write,  they  think,  better  in  the  morning. 
Let  me  leave  that  point,  however,  for  the  moment 
to  turn  to  what  an  incorrigibly  commercial  world 
will  probably  think  a  more  important  one,  the 
question  of  finance.  To  the  theatrical  manager  the 
introduction  of  this  system  would  mean  the  loss  of  a 
whole  night's  receipts.  With  theatre  rents  and 
expenses  at  their  present  height,  could  they  possibly 
contemplate  so  heavy  a  sacrifice  ?  They  arc  already 
complaining  that  theatre  scats  at  their  present  prices 
do  not  pay — and  here  they  woidd  be  giving  away, 
for  one  night,  the  whole  house.  Further,  however 
they  might  gratify  the  friends  whom  they  invited, 
nothing  could  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  those 
who  were  left  over.  Some  of  these,  perhaps,  might 
be  mollifu'd  by  a  subsecpient  invitation — for  the 
"  deadhead  "  habit  becomes  an  insidious  disease, 
and,  I  am  told,  the  Paris  theatres  groan  under  the 
hordes  of  playgoers  who  consider  themsrlvi's  entitled 
to  gratuitous  admission.     On  the  whole,  I  think  our 

p.p.  118  I 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

managers  would  be  ill-advised  to  countenance  the 
suggested  change. 

Another  thing.  The  repetition  generale  is  a  trial 
performance.  Effects  which  don't  "  tell,"  incidents 
which  shock  or  provoke  ridicule,  arc  often  cut  out 
next  morning,  so  that  the  play  actually  presented  at 
the  premiere  differs,  sometimes  vitally,  from  that 
presented  to  the  critics,  so  that  the  "  notice  "  not 
seldom  describes  and  criticizes  various  matters 
which  the  public  are  never  shown.  If  the  Enghsh 
manager  imitated  this  example — and  as  a  practical 
man  of  business  he  would  be  sure  to  imitate  it — 
the  unhappy  critic  after  wTiting  his  notice  would 
have  to  go  to  the  j^lay  again,  before  printing  it,  in 
order  to  assure  himself  that  it  still  represented  the 
facts.  It  woiild  have  to  be  two  bites  at  a  cherry. 
Now,  new  j)lays  are  often  produced  on  two  nights 
numing,  in  which  case  two  bites  at  the  same  cherry 
would  be  impossible.  In  the  most  favourable  case, 
two  successive  visits  to  a  play  would  be  a  heavy 
addition  to  the  burden  of  life. 

But  would  criticism  benefit  in  quality  ?  I  venture 
to  doubt  that,  too.  I  think  that  theatrical 
"  notices  "  arc  all  the  better  for  being  piping  hot. 
Ones  impressions  of  the  play  arc  stronger,  more 
definite  in  outline,  richer  in  colour,  when  one  leaves 
the  theatre  than  next  morning,  when  they  have 
had  time  to  cool  and  to  fade  into  "  second  thoughts," 
which  in  criticism  are  far  from  being  always  the  best. 
>Vhen  Jules  Lemaitre  went  from  the  Dcbais  to  the 
114 


FIRST    NIGHTS 

Deux  Mondes  he  found  that  his  thoughts  about  the 
play,  instead  of  maturinjL!:  with  the  longer  interval 
for  writing,  were  apt  to  become  simply  vague  and 
general.  If  the  play  happened  to  be  one  "  of  ideas," 
not  so  mueh  harm  was  done,  bceause  ideas  stick  in 
the  mind,  and  arc  revolved  there.  But  a  play  of 
emotion  or  a  play  dependent  on  fine  shades  of  acting 
is  bound  to  suffer  by  the  gradual  waning  of  the  first 
impression.  And  my  own  experience  is  that  in 
writing  about  a  play  of  which  one  has  lost  the  first 
hot  impression,  and  which  one  has  to  recall  by  an 
effort  of  memory,  the  proportions  get  altered,  so  that 
the  criticism  is  thrown  out  of  gear.  Some  point,  a 
mere  minor  point,  perhaps,  that  attracted  one's 
attention,  remains  in  the  mind  and  assumes  an  undue 
importance  in  relation  to  other  details  that  have 
faded.  I  went  to  see  GriersotCs  Way  revived  the 
other  night  after  a  qjiarter  of  a  century.  When  I 
asked  myself  beforehand  what  I  remembered  of  it, 
I  could  only  answer  that  I  had  been  originally  nnich 
struck  by  its  merits,  but  that  the  only  one  of  these 
merits  that  remained  in  my  mind  was  a  conversation 
wherein,  under  a  surface  of  small  talk,  two  j)eople 
were  revealing  depths  of  tragic  emotion.  I  had 
forgotten  the  characters,  the  motif,  the  very  story. 
And  when  my  couNcrsation  turned  up  (in  .Vet  III.), 
though  I  was  as  delighted  as  ever,  I  saw,  of  course, 
that  it  was  only  an  item,  not  the  sole  memorable 
thing  in  the  piay. 

,\ii   int«r\;il   of  a   (jiinrlcr  of  a   etntiiry   is   rather 
115  ,  > 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

different  from  one  of  four-and-twenty  hours  ?  Un- 
doubtedly ;  but  my  point  is  that  one's  impressions 
begin  to  wane  and  to  alter  in  "  values  "  from  the 
very  outset.  After  all  it  is  the  business  of  crities 
not  merely  to  eriticizc,  analyse,  and  jud^c  a  play,  to 
try  and  "  place  "  it  in  the  realm  of  art ;  they  have 
also  the  perhaps  minor  but  still  important  duty  of 
acting  as  public  "  tasters."  Tiicy  have  to  represent 
facts,  to  give  the  public  a  reasonably  accurate 
notion  of  what  they  are  likely  to  see.  And  they 
are  in  a  much  better  position  for  doing  this  if  they 
set  down  their  facts  and  their  views  of  the  facts  at 
once,  while  they  are  still  quivering  with  the  excite- 
ment (or  yawning  with  the  boredom)  of  them. 


116 


PLAYS    WITHIN    PLAYS 

Representative  arts  will  represent  everything 
they  can,  including  themselves.  The  theatre  likes 
to  show  an  image  of  its  own  life,  life  behind  the 
scenes,  actors  acting  on  the  stage,  audiences  listening, 
applauding,  or  interrupting  in  front.  Hence  the 
plays  within  plays  which  Shakespeare  found  so 
alluring.  It  was  a  comparatively  simj)le  problem  of 
technique  in  his  time  because  of  the  simplicity  of 
the  "  platform  "  stage  and  of  the  Elizabethan 
playhouse. 

A  standing  audience,  as  his  for  the  most  part  was, 
is  obviously  easier  to  represent  than  a  seated  audi- 
ence ;  it  is  just  a  crowd  of  "  citizens  "  like  any  other 
stage  crowd.  The-  only  inijjortant  (luestion  for  the 
stage-manager  was  the  relative  position  of  the 
mimic  players  and  the  minjic  pui^lic.  Clearly  your 
mimic  jjlayers  nuist  be  seen  by  the  real  public,  or 
what  becomes  of  your  play  witliin  a  play  ?  The 
position  of  your  mimic  j)ublie  nnist  have  been  more 
or  less  dej)endt  lit  on  their  importance  in  the  action. 
But,  I  take  it,  the  Pjlizabcthan  arrangement,  in  any 
case,  must  have  been  of  a  i)re-Raphaelite  symmetry. 
I  presume  the  play  scene  in  IluiaUi  must  ha\e  taken 
117 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

place  in  the  lower  part  of  the  permanent  erection  at 
the  back  of  the  stage  and  that  the  mimic  public  was 
ranged  down  each  side  of  the  stage.  The  old 
arrangement  has  remained  essentially  unaltered. 
Tlie  mimic  i)layers  are  generally  shown  in  some 
raised,  areaded  terrace  at  the  back  of  the  stage  ;  the 
King  and  Queen  face  Hamlet  and  Ophelia  (in  profile 
with  respect  to  the  real  public)  in  front.  It  would 
obviously  never  do  to  let  Hamlet  and  the  King  face 
the  performers  in  the  rear  and  so  turn  their  backs  on 
the  real  i)ublic,  for  the  whole  j^oint  of  the  scene  is  the 
effect  of  the  mimic  play  on  the  King  and  on  Hamlet 
watching  the  King.  But  I  do  not,  for  my  part,  sec 
why  more  might  not  be  made  out  of  this  "  psycho- 
logic "  effect  by  an  arrangement  which  placed  the 
mimic  players  nearer  the  front  of  the  actual  stage, 
on  one  side,  so  that  the  King  might  be  turned  full- 
face  towards  us  as  he  watched  them.  If  the  King 
were  played  by  an  actor  of  the  first  importance 
(which  he  seldom  or  never  is),  with  a  gift  of  facial 
play,  we  nuiy  be  sure  that  this  would  be  done. 

There  is  a  somewhat  similar  scene  in  the  first  act 
of  Cyrano  de  Bergcrar.  The  ehic-f  centre  of  attrac- 
tion here  is  not  the  juiniie  play  itself,  but  the  beha\i- 
our  of  the  audience,  disturbed  by  Cyrano's  interruj)- 
tion  of  the  j)layers.  That  is  why  I  think  that 
Co(pielin\s  arrangenient  with  the  players  on  one  side 
and  the  audience  in  profile  was  better  than  Mr. 
Loraine's,  with  the  players  in  the  rear  and  the  mimic 
audience  turning  its  back  to  the  real  one.  IJut  it  is  a 
118 


PLAYS    WITHIN    PLAYS 

point  of  comparative  insignificance.  As  it  was  the 
old  playhouse  and  the  old  standing  audience  that 
was  being  represented,  the  stage-nianagenient  was 
essentially  as  simple  as  that  of  the  play-scene  in 
IlavUet. 

So  soon,  however,  as  yon  come  to  represent  the 
very  different  modern  "  picture "  stage  and  the 
modern  seated  audience  you  see  at  once  that  the 
j)robIem  becomes  immensely  more  dillieult.  Accord- 
ingly you  find  a  revolution  in  the  method  of  treating 
a  play  within  a  play.  I  do  not  know  whether  the 
Guitrys  invented  it  or  Reinhardt  or  whoever,  but 
certainly  the  most  conspicuo\is  illustration  we  have 
had  of  it  has  been  presented  by  the  Guitrys.  It  is 
something  much  more  than  a  mechanical  change  ;  it 
is  psychological  as  well.  The  mimic  stage,  the  stage 
of  the  i)lay  within  the  |)lay,  now  occupies  the  whole 
of  the  actual  stage,  and  the  mimic  audience  is  identi- 
fied with  the  real  audience. 

We  .saw  this  startling  innovation  first  in  Pasteur. 
Pasteur  is  supposed  to  be  addressing  a  meeting  of 
the  French  Academy  of  Medicine.  His  rostrum  is 
at  the  footlights,  and  he  addresses  us,  the  real 
audience.  We  haxc  to  suj)pose  ourselves  the 
Academy  of  Medicine,  To  helji  us  to  this  illusion 
one  or  two  actors  are  scattered  about  the  house,  who 
interrupt,  argiie  with  Pasteur,  and  arc  personally 
answered  by  him.  W'r  find  ourselvi-s,  in  fact,  at 
once  listening  to  a  debate,  as  real  audience,  and,  in 
the  thick  of  it,  taking  part  in  it,  as  supposed  audience. 


PASTICHK    AND    PREJUDICE 

There  is  a  French  proverb  which  says  you  cannot 
both  join  in  a  ])rocession  and  look  out  of  the  window  ; 
but  this  experience  upsets  it.  The  result  is  a  curious 
blend  of  sensations  ;  you  feel  yourself  both  spectator 
and  actor,  at  a  i)lay  and  in  a  play.  But  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  effect  is  much  more  vivid  and  exciting 
than  that  which  would  have  attended  the  mere 
spectacle  of  Pasteur  addressing  a  crowd  upon  the 
stage  itself.  You  have,  by  the  way,  exactly  the 
same  effect  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  Skin  Game,  where 
an  auctioneer  addresses  us,  the  public,  who  are  sup- 
posed to  represent  the  competing  purchasers. 

A  still  more  striking  instance  has  been  seen  in 
VlUusioniste.  Here  the  first  act  shows  the  stage  of 
a  music-hall  and  presents  three  actual  "  turns." 
We,  the  actual  audience,  become  the  music-hall 
audience,  and  again  there  are  actors  scattered  among 
us  to  heliD  the  illusion.  They  are  addressed  by  the 
conjurer  and  answer  him  ;  a  lady  in  a  box  throws 
him  ardent  glances  which  are  returned  with  interest. 
But  one  of  the  "  turns,"  an  act  by  acrobatic  clowns, 
has  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the  play  ;  it  is 
there  purely  for  its  own  interest,  a  substantive  })cr- 
formance.  This  shows,  what  we  knew  before,  that 
revolutions  run  to  excess.  We  are  so  engrossed  by 
the  clowns  that  we  are  temiDted  to  forget  what  we 
are  there  for,  to  see  a  play.  Anyhow,  it  is  a  most 
amusing  innovation,  this  conversion  of  the  actual 
stage  into  an  imaginary  stage  within  the  ])lay,  and 
of  the  actual  public  into  an  imaginary  public  taking 
120 


PLAYS    WITHIN    PLAYS 

part  in  the  play.     It  is  a  real  enrichment  of  stage 
resources. 

But  there  are  obvious  dangers.  One  I  have  just 
pointed  out,  the  danger  of  introducing  irrelevancies 
for  their  own  intrinsic  interest,  which  tend  to  impair 
the  artistic  unity  of  the  play.  Another  is  the  danger 
of  applying  this  method  to  cases  (as  in  Hamlet  and 
Cyrano)  where  the  real  centre  of  interest  is  not  the 
mimic  play  but  the  mimic  audience.  Imagine  the 
whole  stage  given  up  to  the  Mouse  Trap,  with  the 
front  row  of  stalls  occupied  by  the  courtiers,  and 
Hamlet  and  Ophelia  in  one  box  watching  the  King 
and  Gertrude  in  the  opposite  box  !  That  is  an 
extreme  instance,  which  traditional  respect  for 
Shakespeare  will  probably  save  us  from  ;  but  some 
ambitious  producer  will  probably  try  this  game  with 
some  modem  play,  and  then  I  predict  disaster. 


121 


PLAYS    OF    TALK 

The  production  on  two  successive  nights  of  two 
plays  so  violently  contrasted  in  method  as  Mr.  Har- 
wood's  Grain  of  Mustard  Seed  and  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
Skin  Game — the  first  a  jilay  mainly  of  talk,  the  second 
a  play  entirely  of  action — sets  one  thinking. 
According  to  the  ortliodox  canons,  the  second  is 
the  right,  nay,  the  only  method.  Drama,  we  are 
told,  is  a  conflict  of  wills  and  all  the  interest  is  in  the 
action,  the  external  manifestation  of  the  conflict. 
There  shoidd  be  just  enougli  talk  to  carry  that  on 
and  not  an  idle  word  should  be  spoken.  Diderot, 
indeed,  jjrofessed  to  think  that  words  were  almost 
sui)ernuous,  and  went  to  the  play  with  cotton-wool 
in  his  ears  in  order  to  judge  its  merits  on  the  dumb 
show  ;  yet  he  wrote  the  most  wordy  and  tedious 
plays.  And  there  is,  or  was,  a  certain  sciiool  of 
theatrical  criticism  which  forever  quotes  the  old 
Astlcy  maxim,  "  Cut  the  cackle  and  come  to  the 
'esses  " — which  was  no  doubt  a  most  approi)riate 
maxim,  for  quadrujx'ds.  Others  have  mistaken 
action  for  physical,  j)referably  \  iolent  action — 
Maldonado  sweeping  the  crockery  off  the  chimney- 
pieee  or  Lady  .ViuIIt  y  pusjiiug  her  lnisl)an(l  (htwii 
122 


PLAYS    OF    TALK 

the  well — and  have  ignored  the  fact  that  talk  also 
may  be  action,  "  and  much  the  noblest,"  as  Dryden 
says.  "  Every  alteration  or  crossing  of  a  design, 
every  new-sprung  passion,  and  turn  of  it,  is  a  part 
of  the  action,  and  nuich  the  noblest,  excej)t  we 
perceive  nothing  to  be  action,  till  they  come  to 
blows  ;  as  if  the  painting  of  the  hero's  mind  were 
not  more  proi)erly  the  poet's  work  than  the  strength 
of  his  body."  How  often  we  were  told  in  the 
old  days  that  Dumas  fils  and  Ibsen  were  too 
"  talky,"  when  their  talk  was  mainly  psychological 
action. 

lint  this  demand  for  action  and  nothing  but 
action,  so  persistently  uttered  of  late  years,  wo\ild 
deprive  the  world  of  nuieii  of  its  best  entertainment. 
Apply  it  to  Congreve,  "  cut  the  eaekk-  '"  of  his  plays, 
and  you  conic  to  tiie  'osses,  spa\  incd  hacks,  of  plots 
childislily  eomplieated  and  perfunctorily  womid  uj). 
Would  any  one  of  taste  suppress  the  "  cackle  *"  of 
.Sheridan's  scandalous  college  ?  Is  not,  in  short, 
nnicli  of  the  pleasure  of  comedy  in  resting  from  the 
action,  in  getting  away  from  it,  in  the  relief  of  good 
talk  ?  Yes.  and  often  enough  tlie  |)leasure  of 
tragedy,  too.  There  is  a  bustling,  melodramatic 
action  in  Hamlet.  But  with  what  relief  Hamlet  gets 
away  fnnn  his  revenge  "  mission  "  at  every  moment, 
puts  it  out  of  sight,  forget.s  it  !  His  intcr\iew  with 
the  |)layers  and  advice  to  them  on  histrionics,  his 
chat  with  the  gravedigger,  what  else  arc  these  but 
the  sheer  delight  of  good  talk  ?  For  him  the  joy 
1  'J  a 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

of  living  is  the  joy  of  talking,  and  with  the  chance 
of  these  before  him  his  revenge-mission  may  go 
hang  ! 

Obviously  we  never  get  so  near  Shakespeare  and 
Shakespeare's  natural  temperament,  as  in  these 
moments  of  talk  for  its  own  sake,  talk  unfettered 
by  the  exigencies  of  the  ])lot.  For  that  talk  wells 
up  spontaneously  and  is  not  turned  on  to  order  ; 
the  poet  has  something  interesting  in  his  mind  which 
he  is  bursting  to  say,  and  if  to  say  it  will  keep  the 
plot  waiting,  why,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  plot. 
And  here  is  a  reason,  I  think,  in  favour  of  plays  of 
talk.  We  get  nearer  the  author  in  them  ;  in  good 
talk  the  author  is  expressing  a  pleasure  so  strong  as 
to  override  the  objection  of  irrelevance,  and  in 
sharing  that  j)lcasure  we  get  the  best  of  him,  the 
spontaneous  element  in  him,  the  man  himself.  On 
the  other  hand,  mere  yarn-spinning,  mere  plot- 
weaving,  may  be  an  almost  mechanical  exercise. 
Not  necessarily,  of  course.  I  should  be  sorry  to  call 
Mr.  Galsworthy's  Skin  Game  a  mechanical  bit  of 
work.  The  will-conflict  there  has  an  intense  reality 
and  is  fought  tooth  and  nail.  Irrelevant  talk  in 
such  a  white-hot  play  would  obviously  be  fatal. 
Everybody  speaks  briefly,  j)lainly,  and  to  the  point. 
Artistic  work  of  any  kind  gives  j)leasure,  and  it  is 
possible  to  be  as  delighted  with  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
kind  as  with  Mr.  Ilarwood's.  I  am  not  eomj)aring 
two  artists  of  two  different  kinds,  wjiieh  would  be 
absurd.  I  am  only  pleading  for  a  kind  wjiicli  is  not 
124 


PLAYS    OF    TALK 

what  a  vain  people  supposeth,  and  which  is  apt  to 
be  stupidly  condcnincd. 

Not  that  it  woidd  be  fair,  either,  to  call  Mr.  Har- 
wood's  brilliant  task  irrelevant.  It  helps  to  paint 
character.  Thus,  parents  expect  their  son  to  have 
returned  from  the  war  a  compound  of  Sir  Galahad 
and  Mr.  Bottomley,  and  instead  of  that  he  is  only  a 
good  bridge-player,  after  four  hours'  bridge  a  day 
for  four  years.  These  witticisms  help  to  tell  you 
something  about  the  young  man  whose  family 
reputation  gives  rise  to  them  in  the  family  circle. 
When  the  old  Parliamentary  hand  compares  govern- 
ment to  'bus-driving,  seeking  to  get  through  the 
traffic  with  the  minimum  of  accident,  or  remarks  on 
the  reputation  Canute  would  have  made  had  he  only 
waited  for  high  tide,  he  is  telling  us  something  about 
himself  and  his  political  principles.  But  primarily 
these  things  are  enjoyable  for  their  wit  and  not  for 
tiicir  relevance.  In  a  play  of  fierce  will-eonlliet  they 
would  have  been  impossible.  These  plays  of  brilliant 
talk  belong  to  the  qnict genre,  and  quiet  in  the  theatre, 
as  in  art  generally,  is  pcrlia{)S  an  acquired  taste. 
"  Punch,"  we  are  constantly  being  told  by  the 
natural  unsophisticated  man,  is  what  is  wanted — 
the  word  itself  is  the  invention  of  an  untpiiet  people. 
Well,  give  me  wit,  and  let  who  will  have  the  "  punch." 

The  occasional  tendency  in  the  theatre  to  revolt 

against  the  restraint  of  the  action  and  to  play  lightly 

round  it  has  its  counterpart   in  criticism.     What  is 

it   gives   so   peculiar   a   charm    to   the   criticism   of 

V2o 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Drydcn  ?  Is  it  not  his  discursiveness,  his  httle 
descriptive  embellishments — as,  for  example,  in  the 
"  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,"  the  river  trip,  the 
listening  for  the  distant  thnnder  of  the  Dutch  guns 
"on  that  memorable  day,"  the  moonlight  on  the  water, 
the  landing  at  Somerset  Stairs  among  the  crowd  of 
French  dancers  ?  I  have  elsewhere  said  how  Hazlitt's 
theatrical  criticisms  lose  in  readableness  by  their 
strict  attention  to  business,  compared  with  his 
miscellaneous  essays,  where  he  permits  himself  to 
wander  "  all  over  the  place."  George  Henry  Lewes's 
theatrical  criticisms  can  still  be  read  with  pleasure 
for  the  very  reason  that  they  were  diversified  with 
deliberate,  almost  frivolous  irrelevancies.  And  then 
there  was  Jules  Lemaitrc  with  his  perpetual  "  moi," 
which  provoked  the  austere  Brunetiere  to  quote 
Pascal's  "  le  inoi  est  haissable.''  Yet  where  will  you 
find  more  enjoyable  criticism  than  Lemaitre's  ? 
But  I  must  keep  off  Lemaitrc  and  the  charm  of  him, 
or  I  shall  become,  what  he  never  was,  tiresome. 
Even  as  it  is,  I  may  resemble  the  parson  who  said  he 
had  aimed  at  brevity  in  order  to  avoid  tediousness, 
and  was  answered,  "  You  xcerc  brief,  and  you  xvere 
tedious." 


126 


"THE    BEGGAR'S     OPERA" 

One  of  Boswells  projected  works  was  a  history 
of  the  eontrovcTsy  over  The  Beggar  s  Opera.  The 
best  known  of  the  works  he  actually  did  write  con- 
tains several  references  to  this  controversy.  Rey- 
nolds said  it  afforded  a  proof  how  strangely  people 
will  differ  in  opinion  about  a  literary  performance. 
Burke  thought  it  had  no  merit.  Johnson  thought 
very  nuieh  the  opposite,  but  said  characteristically, 
"  There  is  in  it  such  a  labefactation  of  all  princij)lcs 
as  may  be  injurious  to  morality."  Gibbon  suggested 
that  it  might  refine  the  nuumers  of  highwaymen, 
"  making  them  less  ferocious,  more  ix)litc — in  short, 
more  like  gentlenun."  It  is  noteworthy  that  the 
work  was  half  a  century  old  when  tliese  observations 
were  made  alxmt  it.  It  had  become  a  classic.  And 
later  generations  treaird  it  as  a  classic — that  is  to 
say,  kept  on  refashioning  it  to  the  taste  of  their  own 
time.  The  version,  for  instance,  tiiat  Ha/.iitt  was 
so  fond  of  writing  alx^ut  (in  the  second  decade  of  the 
last  century)  was  a  sad  mangling  of  the  original. 
Even  so,  it  rej^resented  for  Ha/litt  the  high-water 
mark  of  theatrical  enjoyment,  just  as  the  original 
did  for  Boswcll,  who  said,  "  No  performance  which 

127 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

the  theatre  exhibits  dehghts  me  more."  You 
cannot  take  up  a  vohuiie  of  Swift's  correspondence, 
or  Horace  Walpole's  or  Arbuthnot's,  without  men- 
tion of  The  Beggar's  Opera.  It  even  got  into  Grimm. 
It  was  the  II. M.S.  Pinafore  of  the  time. 

And  that  reminds  me.  As  I  sat  at  the  Hammer- 
smith Lyric  listenint^  to  the  dialogue  between 
Peachum  and  Mrs,  Pcachum  on  the  question  whether 
Polly  was  Macheath's  wife  or  his  mistress,  the  thing 
seemed  strangely  modern,  and  not  only  modern,  but 
Gilbertian.  (I  am  speaking,  of  course,  of  the  tone, 
not  of  the  sentiment — Gilbert  was  a  very  Victorian 
of  propriety.)  Pcachum  is  Gilbertian,  "  Do  you 
think  your  mother  and  I  should  have  liv'd  com- 
fortably so  long  together  if  ever  we  had  been 
married  ?  Baggage  !  "  Mrs.  Pcachum  is  Gilbertian. 
"  If  you  must  be  married,  could  you  introduce 
nobody  into  our  family  but  a  highwayman  ?  Why, 
thou  foolish  jade,  thou  wilt  be  as  ill-used  and  as 
much  neglected  as  if  thou  hadst  married  a  lord  !  " 
Again,  "  If  she  had  only  an  intrigue  with  the  fellow, 
why  the  very  best  families  have  cxcus'd  and  huddled 
up  a  frailty  of  that  sort.  'Tis  marriage,  husband, 
that  makes  it  a  blemish."  Once  more.  "  Love 
him  !  Worse  and  worse  !  I  thought  the  girl  had 
been  better  bred."  Polly  herself  is  Gilbertian. 
"  Methinks  I  see  him  already  in  the  cart,  sweeter  and 
more  lovely  than  the  nosegay  in  his  hand  !  I  hear 
the  crowd  extolling  his  resolution  and  intrepidity  ! 
What  volleys  of  sighs  arc  sent  from  the  windows  of 
128 


"THE    BEGGAR'S    OPERA" 

Hoi  born,  that  so  comely  a  youth  should  be  brought 
to  disgrace  !  I  see  him  at  the  tree  !  The  whole 
circle  arc  in  tears  !  Even  butchers  weep  !  "  Lucy 
is  Gilbertian.  When  Machcath  is  at  the  "  tree,"  her 
comment  is,  "  There  is  nothing  moves  one  so  much 
as  a  great  man  in  distress."  And  not  only  the  tone, 
but  the  very  principle  of  the  play  is  Gilbertian. 
Gilbert  took  some  typical  figure  of  the  social  hier- 
archy— a  Lord  Chancellor,  a  First  Lord  of  the 
Admiralty — and  set  the  Chancellor  capering  and 
the  First  Lord  singing  about  the  handle  of  the  big 
front  door.  He  put  a  familiar  figure  in  unfamiliar 
postures.  Gay  took  a  typical  figure  of  his  own 
time — the  highwayman — and  showed  him,  not  at 
work  on  the  highway,  but  enjoying  an  elegant 
leisure,  behaving  like  a  Chesterfield  or  one  of  Con- 
greve's  fine  gentlemen.  It  was  the  realism,  tin- 
actuality  of  the  subject,  combined  with  the  burlesque 
of  the  treatment,  that  delighted  the  London  of  172S 
as  it  delighted  the  London  of  a  century  and  a  half 
later.  At  each  date  it  was  a  new  experiment  in 
opera  libretto.  Boswcll  specified  the  attraction  of 
Gay's  realism — "  the  real  pictures  of  London  life." 
Johnson  singles  out  the  "  novelty  "  of  the  treatment. 
But  it  is  time  that  I  said  something  about  Mr. 
Nigel  Playfair's  re^'ival.  This  is  a  remarkable 
success,  from  every  point  of  view.  For  the  original 
attraction  of  realism  is,  of  course,  no  longer  there. 
Wc  have  to  take  it  all  historically.  And  the  revival 
has  been  particularly  careful  of  historical  accuracy. 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Just  as  Gay's  dialogue  prompts  you  to  say  "  Gilbert," 
so  Mr.  Lovat  Frascr's  scenery  and  costumes  prompt 
you  lo  exclaim  "  Hogarth  !  "  By  the  way,  on  one 
of  Hazlitt's  visits  he  records  the  exclamation  of  an 
old  gentleman  in  the  pit,  after  the  seuflle  between 
Pcachum  and  Lockit,  "  Hogarth,  by  G— d  !  "  This 
was,  no  doubt,  a  tribute  to  the  grim,  ugly  squalor 
of  that  particular  scene.  But  the  whole  decor  and 
atmosphere  of  the  present  affair  are  Hogarthian — 
the  stiff,  flattened  hoops  of  the  women,  the  tatter- 
demalion aspect  of  Macheath's  rabble,  Peachum's 
dressing-gown  (which  I  suppose  is  "  documentary  "), 
Macheath's  scarlet  coat  and  flowing  wig.  And  the 
dresses  are  accurately  simple.  The  women  wear 
plain  stuffs  ;  Polly  alone  is  allowed  a  little  finery. 
Indeed,  there  is  an  almost  austere  simplicity  about 
the  whole  affair.  One  scene,  with  just  the  alteration 
of  a  few  accessories,  serves  for  Peachum's  house, 
for  a  tavern,  and  for  Newgate.  There  is  an  orchestra 
of  five  strings,  a  flute,  an  oboe,  and  a  harpsichord. 
It  seems  to  mc  that  their  playing  has  the  delicate 
charm  of  chamber  nuisic  rather  than  the  power  and 
colour  of  orchestral — but  I  nmst  not  stray  out  of  my 
province. 

Hazlitt  indulged  in  rai)tures  over  Miss  Stephens, 
the  first  Polly  he  heard,  and  never  failed  to  contrast 
with  her  her  less  ])leasing  successors.  He  had 
evidently  lost  his  heart  to  her — a  somewhat  sus- 
ceptible heart,  if  you  think  of  the  "  Liber  Amoris." 
I  have  no  Miss  Stephens  to  compare  Miss  Arkandy 

180 


"THE    BEGGAR'S    OPERA" 

with,  and  can  only  say  the  songstress  is  quite  sweet 
enough  for  my  taste  and  the  actress  a  charming 
little  doll.  Miss  Marqucsita,  the  Lucy,  is  a  good 
contrast,  a  voluptuous  termagant.  BoswcU  says  of 
Walker,  the  original  Macheath,  that  he  "  acquired 
great  celebrity  by  his  grave  yet  animated  perform- 
ance of  it."  Mr.  Ranalow's  Macheath  is  decidedly 
more  grave  than  animated,  is  in  fact  a  little  solemn 
— long  before  he  gets  to  the  Condemned  Hold. 
There  is  an  almost  Oriental  impassivcness  about  him, 
something  of  the  jaded  sultan — which,  after  all,  is 
not  an  inappropriate  suggestion,  surrounded  as  the 
poor  man  is  by  his  seraglio  of  towii-ladies.  Miss 
Elsie  French  bravely  makes  a  thorough  hag  of  Mrs. 
Peachum  ;  the  Pcachum  and  Loekit  of  Mr.  Wynne 
and  Mr.  Rawson  are  properly,  Hogarthianly, 
crapulous  ;  and  Mr.  Scott  Russell  makes  a  good, 
vociferous  Filch,  leading  with  a  will  the  fine  drinking- 
song  "  Woman  and  Wine  "  and  the  still  finer  "  Let 
us  tiike  the  Road  "  (to  the  tune  of  Handel's  march 
in  Rinaldo).  Altogether  a  delicious  entertainment  : 
gay,  despite  the  solemn  deportment  of  Macheath, 
and  dainty,  despite  the  sordid  crapulc  of  Newgate. 
Yes,  my  final  impression  of  tlie  affair  is  one  of 
daintiness.  Even  the  women  of  the  town  arc 
dainty.  They  might  almost  be  Dresden  china 
shepherdesses  (which  would  be  bearing  out  the 
original  suggestion  of  a  Newgate  "  pastoral  "  very 
literally).  For  the  sordid  milieu  is  so  remote  from 
us  as  to  have  become  fantastically  unreal ;  the 
181  Ka 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Peachums  and  the  Lockits  are  no  longer  ugly  men, 
but  have  been  turned  into  grotesque  gargoyles  ; 
the  rabble  round  Tyburn  Tree  has  lived  to  see  a 
Russian  ballet  and  learnt  to  move  in  its  elegant 
arabesques.  It  is  a  Hogarth  retouehcd  by  a 
Shepperson — or  rather,  to  speak  by  the  card,  by  a 
Lovat  Fraser. 


182 


GRAND    GUIGNOLISM 

Dandik,  the  judge  in  Racine's  comedy  of  Les 
Flaideurs,  offers  to  amuse  Isabelle  by  the  spectacle 
of  a  httlo  torturing.  "  Eh  !  Monsieur,"  exchiims 
Isabelle,  "  eh,  Monsieur,  peut  on  voir  souffrir  des 
malheurcux  ?  "  and  Dandin,  in  his  reply,  speaks  for 
a  by  no  means  negligible  proportion  of  the  human 
race  :  "  Bon  !  cela  fait  toujours  passer  une  heure 
ou  deux."    Dandin  was  a  Guignolite. 

We  all  have  our  Guignolite  moments,  moments  of 
Taine's  "  ferocious  gorilla  "  surviving  in  civilized 
man,  when  we  seek  the  spectacle  of  torture  or  phy- 
sical suffering  or  violent  death  ;  but  we  are  careful 
to  wsthetize  them,  refine  them  into  moments  of 
poetry  or  art.  The  pleasure  of  tragedy  is  jcsthetic. 
Nevertheless,  tragedy  involves  violent  death,  and 
without  that  would  be  an  idle  tale.  So  Rousseau 
was  not  altogether  wrong  when  he  said  we  go  to  a 
tragedy  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  others  suffer,  with- 
out suffering  ourselves.  Your  true  Guignolite 
simply  pritVrs  his  tragedy  "  neat,"  without  a-sthctic 
dilution.  But  I  think  it  is  unfair  to  charge  him,  as  he 
is  so  often  charged,  with  a  loNe  of  the  horrible  for  its 
own  sake.  I  think,  rather,  that  he  is  moved,  a  little 
more  actively  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  by  curiosity. 

1813 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

It  is  customary  to  talk  of  curiosity  as  though  it 
were  essentially  ifjnoble.  Children,  women,  and 
savages  are  said  to  have  most  of  it.  It  accounts  for 
*'  fortune-telling,"  prophetic  almanacs,  spiritualistic 
seances  and  other  forms  of  alleged  communication 
with  the  dead.  But  tlie  trutii  is,  curiosity,  the  desire 
to  enlarge  experience,  is  a  highly  valuable,  or,  rather, 
indispensable,  human  attribute.  Without  it  there 
could  be  no  science,  no  progress,  and  finally  no 
human  life  at  all.  And  you  cannot  restrict  it.  It 
must  crave  for  all  forms  of  experience.  Some  of  us 
will  be  sweeping  the  heavens  for  new  stars,  and 
others  will  want  to  peep  into  Bluebeard's  cupboard. 
More  particularly  we  are  curious  to  know  what  is 
already  known  to  others.  We  desire  to  see  with 
our  own  eyes  what  others  have  seen  and  reported  to 
us.  That  is  why  so  many  people  have  gone  to  Chu 
Chin  Chow.  We  wish  to  realize  for  ourselves,  by  the 
direct  aid  of  our  own  senses,  "  What  it's  like."  And 
the  more  dilTieult  it  is  to  see,  the  greater  the  secrecy, 
the  intimacy,  of  its  actual  happening  in  life,  the 
greater  our  curiosity  to  see  a  pietiirc  or  other  repre- 
sentation of  it.  Hence  the  vogue  of  stage  bedroom 
scenes,  newspaper  portraits  of  "  the  victim  "  and 
"  the  i)lace  of  the  crime,"  and  Tussaud's  Chamber 
of  Horrors. 

I  believe  that  is  why  "  ccla  " — the  horrible,  the 

dreadful,  the  gruesome — "  fait  toujours  passer  une 

heure  ou  deux  "  for  your  Guignolite.    It  satisfies  his 

curiosity  about  an  experience  which  in  real  life  it  is 

184 


GPAND    GUIGNOLISM 

rare  or  difficult  to  obtain.  For  instance,  they  liavc 
been  showing  at  the  London  Grand  Guipnol  a  repre- 
sentation of  a  criminal's  last  half-hour  before  execu- 
tion. Time  was  when  you  could  see  that  for  your- 
self, follow  the  prisoner  in  the  cart  to  Tyburn,  and 
offer  him  nosegays  or  pots  of  beer.  In  that  time, 
enjoying  the  real  thing,  you  wanted  no  mimic  repre- 
sentation of  it.  For  stage  purposes  you  only  cared 
to  have  it  fantasticated — as  in  The  Beggar's  Opera. 
To-day  you  cannot  (unless  you  are  a  prison  ofBcial 
or  the  hangman  himself)  enjoy  the  real  thing  ;  the 
Press  is  excluded  ;  so  you  seek  the  next  best  thing, 
a  realistic  stage  picture  of  it.  "  Realistic,"  I  say. 
That  is  the  merit  of  Mr.  Reginald  Berkeley's  Eight 
o'clock,  wherein  there  is  not  a  trace  of  stagincss  or 
imported  sentiment.  He  gives  you  what  you  arc 
looking  for,  the  nearest  substitute  for  the  real  thing. 
You  are  shown,  as  accurately  as  j)ossibk',  "  what 
it's  like."  You  sec  how  the  warders  behave,  and 
how  the  chaplain  and  how  the  prisoner — with  the 
result  that  you  feel  as  though,  for  that  terrible  half- 
hour,  you  had  been  in  Newgate  yourself.  You  have 
gone  through  an  experience  which  in  actual  life  (let 
us  hope)  you  will  never  have.  Your  curiosity  has 
been  satisfied. 

And  I  think  realism  will  have  to  be  the  mainstay 
of  the  Grand  Guignol  progranmics.  There  is  an- 
other "  shocker  "  in  the  bill,  Private  lionm  No.  6,  by 
a  French  author,  M.  de  Lorde,  which  seemed  to  me 
not  half  so  effective  as  the  other  because  it  was 
185 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

largely  tinged  witli  romance.  Here  again  was  an 
attempt  to  gratify  eiiriosity  about  an  unusual  experi- 
enee.  The  incident  was  distinctly  "  private  and 
confidential."  How  many  of  us  have  had  the  chance 
of  seeing  a  fiercely-whiskered  Muscovite  kissing  and 
biting  a  (conveniently  dccoUctee)  lady  on  the  shoulder, 
subsequently  swallowing  a  tumberful  of  kummel  at 
a  draught,  and  presently  being  strangled  by  the 
lady's  glove  ?  This,  you  may  say,  was  realistic 
enough,  but  what  made  it  romantic,  theatrical,  was 
the  obviously  artificial  arrangement  of  the  story, 
the  "  preparations,'  the  conventional  types.  You 
knew  at  once  you  were  in  the  theatre  and  being 
served  with  carefully  calculated  '*  thrills."  That  is 
to  say,  your  curiosity  was  solely  about  what  was 
going  to  happen  next  in  the  playwright's  scheme — 
the  common  interest  of  every  stage  plot — which  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  curiosity  about  strange, 
rare,  experiences  in  actual  life.  You  felt  that  Mr. 
Berkeley  had  really  shown  you  "  what  it's  like." 
You  felt  that  M.  de  Lorde  had  only  shown  you  what 
his  skill  in  theatrical  invention  was  like. 

And  there,  I  suspect,  we  reach  a  limitation  of 
Grand  Guignolism.  The  art  of  drama  at  its  best — 
shall  we  call  it  grand  art,  as  distinguished  from 
Grand  Guignol  art  ? — docs  not  exist  to  gratify  curio- 
sity. The  best  drama  does  not  provoke  the  spectator's 
curiosity  about  what  is  going  to  happen  so  much  as 
excite  in  him  a  keen  desire  that  a  certain  thing  shall 
happen  and  then  satisfy  that  desire  to  the  full.    The 

130 


GRAND    GUIGNOLISM 

Greek  tragedians  did  not  scruple  to  announce  their 
plot  in  advance.  Lcssinf^,  in  his  "  Hani})nrp[  Drama- 
turgy," maintains  that  "  the  dramatic  interest  is  all 
the  stronger  and  keener  the  longer  and  more  cer- 
tainly we  have  been  allowed  to  foresee  everything." 
and  adds,  "  So  far  am  I  from  holding  that  the  end 
ought  to  be  hidden  from  the  spectator  that  I  don't 
think  the  enterprise  would  be  a  task  beyond  my 
strength  were  I  to  \mdertake  a  play  of  which  the  end 
should  be  announced  in  advance,  from  the  very  first 
scene."  The  truth  is,  in  the  fine  art  of  drama  we  are 
seeking  what  we  seek  in  every  fine  art — beauty,  a 
new  form  and  colouring  to  be  given  to  the  actions 
and  emotions  of  the  real  world  by  the  artist's  imagi- 
nation. But  even  on  the  lower  plane  of  realism 
Grand  Guignolism  has  ample  scope.  The  one-act 
formula  has  a  clear  technical  advantage  in  the  single 
scene  and  strict  coineidenee  of  sujiposed  with  actual 
time,  great  helps  both  to  imity  of  impression.  (One 
counted  the  minutes  in  Fight  o'Clock  almost  as  anxi- 
ously as  the  condenmed  man  did.)  And  it  has  the 
immense  fun  of  theatrical  experiment,  of  seeing  how 
far  you  can  go,  what  shocks  the  jiublie  can  stand 
and  what  it  can't,  the  joy  of  adventurously  explor- 
ing the  unknown  and  the  inhlit.  Above  all,  if  it  is 
wise  it  will  remember  that  (as  I  believe  nt  any  rate) 
its  public  does  not  yearn  for  the  "  shocking  "  inci- 
dent merely  as  such,  but  as  representing  a  rare 
experience,  and  it  will  look  for  some  rarities  that 
are  not  shocking. 

1.'37 


A    THEATRICAL    FORECAST 

Newspapers  periodically  publish  their  review  of 
the  past  theatrieal  year.  But  it  is  always  a  sad 
thing  to  recall  the  past,  especially  the  immediate 
past,  which  is  too  recent  to  be  history  and  only  old 
enough  to  be  stale.  Why  not,  then,  let  bygones  be 
bygones  and  turn  to  the  future,  about  which  hope 
springs  eternal,  and  which  gives  free  scope  to  the 
imagination  instead  of  imposing  the  tedious  labour 
of  research  ?  What  are  our  leading  dramatists  going 
to  give  us  next  year  ?  The  question  might  be 
treated  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  by  just  going  and 
asking  them — and  perhaps  getting  very  disappoint- 
ing answers.  It  seems  more  sportsmanlike  to  guess  ; 
besides,  it  leaves  room  for  some  piquant  surprises 
when  one  is  by  and  by  confronted  >\ith  the  actual. 
These,  then,  are  one  or  two  guesses  for  next  season. 

It  is  long,  too  long,  since  London  had  a  play  from 
Sir  Arthur  Pinero.  When  he  writes  a  play  he  gives 
you  a  play,  not  a  symposiimi  or  a  sermon  or  a  piece 
of  propagandism,  but  a  dramatic  action  which 
interests  you  in  its  story,  makes  you  wonder  what  is 
going  to  happen  next,  and  takes  care  that  something 
does  happen,   striking  at  the  moment  and  worth 

188 


A    THEATRICAL    FORECAST 

thinking  about  afterwards.  His  characters  arc 
presented  in  strong  relief,  there  is  always  a  dramatic 
conflict  of  wills,  his  women  arc  never  insipid,  are 
sometimes  delieiously  perverse,  and,  if  not  past 
redemption  (in  which  case  they  commit  suicide),  are 
"  saved  "  by  the  nearest  Anglican  bishop  or  dean. 
His  forthcoming  play  will  ignore  the  Church  and  will 
deal  witii  a  household  divided  on  the  "  spiritualistic  " 
question.  The  husband,  who  suffers  from  mild  shell- 
shock  and  saw  the  "  angels  of  Mons,"  will  have  come 
back  from  the  war  a  devoted  follower  of  Sir  Oliver 
Lodge  and  Sir  Conan  Doyle.  The  wife  (Miss  Irene 
Vanbrugh)  will  be  a  pretty  sceptic,  adoring  her 
husband,  but  impatient  of  his  credulity  and  deter- 
mined to  "  laugh  him  out  "  of  it.  An  opportunity 
occurs.  The  young  pair  have  been  having  a  sar- 
castic scene  (a  fine  opportunity  for  Miss  Irene's 
merry  ringing  laugii)  about  the  husband's  bosom- 
friend  Jack,  whom  he  had  left  for  dead  on  the  field 
at  Mons.  The  husband  eagerly  hopes  to  get  into 
communication  with  Jack  "  on  the  other  side." 
The  wife  only  remembers,  with  twinges  of  conscience, 
certain  love  passages  she  had,  before  her  marriage, 
with  the  said  Jack,  of  which  she  has  never  told  her 
husband.  Now  Jack  is  not  dead,  but  on  his  way  to 
his  bosom-friend,  when  the  wife  meets  him.  She 
sees  at  once  a  chance  of  oj)ening  her  husband's  eyes. 
"  We'll  have  a  stance,"  she  says  to  Jack  ;  "  you 
shall  pretend  to  l^  your  own  spirit,  and  then  suddenly 
reveal  yourself  as  flesh  and  blood — and  Tom  will  be 

180 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

for  ever  cured  of  his  foolishness."  Jack  agrees,  but 
he  also  is  suffering  from  shell-shock  (two  in  one  play  ! 
you  can  imagine  how  clever  the  critics  will  be  over 
this — it  will  have  to  be  made  clear  that  it  was  the 
same  shell),  forgets  himself  at  the  stance,  and  at 
sight  of  his  old  lady-love  cries  "  Darling  !  "  ;  then, 
horrified  at  his  own  misbehaviour,  disappears,  and 
the  same  night  is  either  run  over  by  a  motor-car  or 
tumbles  into  a  canal.  The  wife's  reputation  is  saved 
by  another  lady  present,  who  takes  the  "  darling  !  " 
to  herself.  It  is  not  yet  settled  whether  this  shall 
be  a  comic  amorous  dame,  really  self-deceived  (say, 
Miss  Lottie  Venne),  or  a  shrewd,  kindly  woman  of  the 
world  (Miss  Compton,  for  choice),  who  promj;)tly  sees 
how  the  land  lies  and  sacrifices  herself  for  her  little 
married  friend.  In  cither  case,  the  wife  has  to  keep 
up  the  illusion  that  the  voice  came  from  "  the  other 
side,"  while  the  husband,  though  confirmed  in  his 
spiritualism,  is  secretly  disgusted  to  discover  tiiat  the 
spirits  can  be  such  "  bad  form."  Thus  the  final 
situation  is  an  ironic  transmutation  of  the  first.  The 
divided  pair  are  now  united,  the  merry  sceptic  being 
frightened  into  sinuilating  belief,  while  the  believer 
ruefully  finds  belief  without  zest.  Much  will  depend 
on  the  acting  of  this  final  situation.  Miss  Irene  may 
safely  be  trusted  to  transfer  her  laugh  adroitly  to  the 
wrong  side  of  her  mouth,  but  great  subtlety  will  be 
required  from  the  aetor  wlio  lias  to  convey  the  mixed 
joy  and  pain  of  a  belief  j)roved  at  once  true  and  not 
worth  having.     It  may,  i)erha{)s,  count  among  Mr. 

140 


A    THEATRICAL    FORECAST 

Henry  Ainlcy's  triumphs.  Mr.  Gerald  du  Maiirier 
will  play  Jack  the  friend — another  triumph,  for  even 
in  his  moment  of  breakdown  he  will  still  keep  the 
sympathy  of  the  audienee. 

Sir  James  Barrie  has  not  yet  exhausted  the  varia- 
tions on  his  "  enchantment "  theme.  After  the 
enchanted  wood  of  Dear  Brutus,  wlicre  people  get  a 
second  chance  in  life,  and  the  enchanted  island  of 
Mary  Rose,  where  time  stands  still  with  you,  he  will 
with  his  next  play  sound  enchanted  bagpipes. 
These  will  be  heard  as  a  weird  obbligato,  whenever 
any  one  of  the  characters  falls  into  insincerity,  from 
pp  (amiable  taradiddle)  to  ff  (thumping  lie),  and, 
while  they  are  playing,  the  character  will  talk  broad 
Scotch  and  sketch  the  postures  of  or,  in  extreme 
cases,  wildly  dance  a  Highland  Reel.  As  the 
characters  will  be  drawn  exclusively  from  the  Holland 
House  set  (the  scene  throughout  will  be  one  of  the 
famous  breakfasts),  the  extravagance  of  the  com- 
pulsory fits  of  Caledonianism  can  be  seen  a  mile  off. 
The  dismay  of  the  poet  Rogers  (Mr.  George  Robey, 
specially  engaged)  at  finding  his  best  mechancetis, 
in  his  notoriously  low  voice,  unexpectedly  uttered 
in  the  broadest  Scotch  will  only  be  equalled  by  the 
surprise  of  Sydney  Smith  at  hearing  his  choicest 
witticisms  in  the  same  lingo.  At  one  supreme 
moment  the  whole  party  will  be  joining  in  a  Reel,  led 
recalcitrantly  but  majestically  by  Liidy  II.  Fashion" 
able  dames  (a  great  opportunity  for  the  costumier, 
and  fabulous  sums  will  be  spent  on  the  wardrobe) 

141 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

will  suddenly  change  from  lisping  "  vastly  amusing 
I  declare  !  "  and  rolled-collared  beaux  from  murmur- 
ing "  monstrous  fine  women,  egad  !  "  to  "  aiblins," 
"  hoots,  mon,"  "  hceh,  sirs,"  etc.  The  situation  will 
ultimately  be  saved  by  a  little  Scottish  maiden,  in  a 
plaid  (Miss  Hilda  Trevelyan),  who,  being  sincerity 
itself,  will  never  speak  anything  but  the  purest 
Enghsh,  and  a  baby  in  a  box  nailed  against  the  wall, 
who  will  not  speak  at  all.  For  the  enchanted  bag- 
pipes a  squad  of  pipe-majors  of  the  Black  Watch, 
splendid  follows  in  review  order,  will  be  kindly  lent 
from  the  Edinburgh  garrison. 

Mr.  Maugham  has  been  to  China,  and  has  brought 
back  a  play  which  will  aim  at  being  as  unlike  Mr.  JVu 
as  possible.  In  fact,  no  Chinaman  will  figure  in  it — 
Mr.  Maugham  would  never  do  anything  so  artistically 
vulgar  as  that — nor  anything  Chinese  except  a  little 
porcelain  curio  of  the  best  period.  This  will  be  sold 
by  auction  in  a  scene  (it  will  be  the  talk  of  London) 
faithfully  reproducing  a  celebrated  establishment  in 
King  Street,  St.  James's,  with  Mr.  Hawtrey  and  Miss 
Gladj's  Cooper  as  the  rival  bidders.  It  will  serve, 
later,  for  chief  piece  justificative  in  a  divorce  case 
between  the  same  parties  (with  a  really  witty  judge 
— for  he  will  have  the  wit  of  Mr.  Maugham — who  will 
make  a  certain  actual  humorist  on  the  Bench  green 
with  envy),  and  in  the  end  will  be  broken  by  an 
excited  counsel  (played  by  the  famous  crockery- 
smashing  artist  from  the  music-halls). 

Mr.  Shaw — but  no,  it  is  impossible  for  Mr.  Shaw 
142 


A   THEATRICAL   FORECAST 

himself,  let  alone  any  one  else,  to  guess  beforehand 
what  Mr.  Shaw  will  do.  Finally,  it  may  be  conjec- 
tured that  the  rank  and  file  of  our  playwrights  will 
^\Tite  for  us  precisely  the  same  plays  they  have 
written  before,  under  new  titles.  It  would  be  an 
agreeable  innovation  if  they  would  keep  the  old  titles 
and  write  new  plays  for  them. 


148 


A    THEORY    OF    BRUNETIifcRE 

There  is  a  tlicory  of  the  late  Ferdinand  Briinetidre 
about  the  periods  of  dramatic  aetivity  wliich  the 
time  we  are  now  passing  througli  ought  to  put  to  the 
test.  Bruneti^re  was  an  incorrigible  generalizer, 
first  because  he  was  a  Frenchman,  and  next  because 
he  was  a  born  critic.  Criticism  without  general 
ideas,  without  a  substructure  of  principle  and  theory 
to  build  upon,  is  an  idle  thing,  the  mere  expression 
of  likes  and  dislikes,  or  else  sheer  verbiage.  This 
French  critic  was  always  throwing  theories  at  the 
drama,  and  some  of  them  have  stuck.  Perhaps  the 
soundest  of  them  and  the  most  lasting  was  his 
theory  of  the  drama  as  the  spectacle  of  the  struggle 
of  will  against  obstacles.  There  has  been  much 
controversy  about  it,  there  has  been  no  difficulty 
in  instancing  cases  which  it  fails  to  cover,  but  I 
venture  to  think  that  as  a  rough  generalization  it 
still  holds  good.  I  am  not,  however,  concerned  with 
that  famous  theory  for  the  moment.  I  am  thinking 
of  another  theory — a  historical  one.  Bruneti<^re 
asserted  that  every  outburst  of  dramatic  aetivity 
in  a  nation  will  be  found  to  iiave  followed  close  upon 
a  great  manifestation  of  national  energy — Greek 
144 


A    THEORY    OF    BRUNETll^iRE 

tragedy,  for  instance,  after  the  Persian  War,  Calderon 
and  de  Vega  after  the  Spanish  conquests  in  the 
New  World,  Shakespeare  after  the  Armada,  the 
French  romantic  drama  after  the  Napoleonic  cam- 
paigns. He  might  have  added  that  the  war  of  1870 
was  followed  by  the  best  work  of  Dumas  fils,  by  the 
Theatre  Libre,  by  Ibsen  and  Bjornson,  Hau]:>tmann 
and  Sudermann,  and  the  Russo-Japanese  War  by 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  and  Tchekhov. 

I  confess,  then,  my  doubts  about  the  soundness 
of  this  theory.  Throughout  the  past  history  of  any 
nation  wars  have  been  of  so  constant  occurrence  that 
it  would  be  difficult  not  to  find  one  preceding,  by  a 
fairly  short  term,  any  particular  outburst  of  dramatic 
activity  you  like  to  fix  upon.  One  is  always  post  the 
other  ;  it  is  not  necessarily  propter.  And  instances 
to  the  contrary  will  readily  occur  :  periods  of  dra- 
matic activity  that  were  not  immediately  preceded 
by,  but  rather  synchronized  with,  great  manifesta- 
tions of  national  energy  ;  for  instance,  the  period  of 
Corncillc,  Racine,  and  Moli^rc.  And  sometimes, 
wiu'ii  you  look  for  your  dramatic  secpiel  to  your 
national  energizing,  you  only  draw  a  lilank.  Did 
any  outburst  of  dramatic  production  follow  the 
American  Civil  War  ?  The  theory,  in  short,  is  "  an 
easy  one,"  relying  on  lucky  coineidc-nce  and  igiu)ring 
inconvenient  exceptions. 

In  any  case,  we  ought  to  be  able  now,  if  ever,  to 
put  it  to  the  "  acid  test."  Tlie  leading  nations  of  the 
world  have  just  fought  the  biggest  of  all  their  wars. 
p.p.  1 45  L 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Has  the  promised  sequel  followed  ?  Is  there  any  sign 
at  home  or  abroad  of  a  fresh  outburst  of  dramatic 
energy  ?  In  Germany  they  seem  to  be  merely 
"  carrying  on,"  or  tending  to  be  a  little  more  porno- 
graphic than  usual.  In  Vienna  they  are  still  trans- 
lating Mr.  Shaw.  No  new  dramatic  masterpiece  is 
reported  from  Italy,  D'Annunzio  being  "  otherwise 
engaged,"  Mr.  BofTui.  Paris  is  still  producing  its 
favourite  little  "  spicincsses  "  or,  for  the  high  brows, 
translating  Strindbcrg.  (Outside  the  theatre  the  effect 
of  the  war  on  Paris  seems  not  merely  negative  but 
stupefying.  They  have  achieved  Dadaism  and,  so  I 
read  in  a  recent  Literary  Supplement,  a  distaste  for 
the  works  of  M.  Anatole  France  !)  In  America  the 
drama  is  in  no  better  case  than  before  the  war. 

And  what  about  London  ?  An  absolutely  imprece- 
dented  dearth  of  not  merely  good  but  of  actable 
plays.  People  will  give  you  other  causes,  mainly 
economic,  for  the  theatrical  "  slump."  They  will 
tell  you,  truly  enough,  that  ])laygoers  have  less 
money  to  spend,  and  that  the  cheaper  "  cinema  "  is 
diverting  more  and  more  money  from  the  theatre. 
And  yet,  whenever  the  managers  produce  anything 
really  worth  seeing  there  is  no  lack  of  })eople  to  see  it. 
There  is  nothing,  then,  to  discourage  the  aspiring 
dramatist.  Only  he  won't  aspire  !  Or  his  aspiration 
is  not  backed  by  talent  !  It  seems  as  though  the 
war,  instead  of  stimulating  dramatic  energy,  had 
repressed  and  chilled  it.  What  on  earth  (if  I  may  use 
a  colloquialism  condemned  by  Dr.  Johnson)  would 
146 


A    THEORY    OF    BRUNETIERE 

poor  M.  liruneti^re  have  said  if  he  had  hvcd  to  see 
his  pet  theory  thus  falsified  ?  Probably  he  would 
have  invented  a  new  one.  He  would  have  said  that 
wars  mustn't  be  too  big  to  fit  into  a  law  devised  only 
for  usual  sizes.  Also  he  might  have  said,  wait  and 
see.  The  war  is  only  just  over  ;  give  your  young 
dramatists  a  little  breathing  time.  Shakespeare's 
plays  didn't  immediately  follow  the  Armada.  The 
French  Romantic  Drama  didn't  begin  till  a  good 
dozen  years  after  Waterloo. 

Well,  we  can't  afford  to  wait.  While  we  playgoers 
are  waiting  for  good  plays,  our  young  men  are  all 
frittering  away  their  talent  in  minor  poetry,  which 
war  seems  to  bring  as  relentlessly  in  its  train  as  shell- 
shock.  But  the  victims  of  both  maladies  ought  by 
now  to  be  on  the  high-road  to  recovery,  and  it  is 
time  that  the  young  minor  poets  turned  their  atten- 
tion to  something  useful,  e.g.,  the  reintroduetion  of 
the  British  drama.  They  have  a  cai)ital  opportunity, 
since  most  of  our  old  stalwarts  seem  to  have  left  the 
field.  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  gives  us  nothing.  !\rr. 
Art Jnir  Henry  Jones  gives  us  nothing.  Mr.  Maugham 
is,  I  am  told,  far  away  in  Borneo,  so  now  is  the  chance 
for  the  young  aspirants  ;  the  world  is  all  before  them 
where  to  choose.  Of  course  it  is  understood  that  tluy 
will  drop  their  verse.  That  used  to  be  the  natural 
form  for  plays  over  two  centuries  ago.  It  may  come 
into  fashion  again,  you  never  can  tell,  but,  quite 
clearly,  the  time  is  not  yet.  I  have  heard  peoph*  ask, 
"  What   are    the    chances    for    a    revival    of    poetic 

117  Li 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

drama  ?  "  They  really  mean  verse-drama,  but  the 
answer  is,  that  the  essence  of  poetry  is  not  verse, 
which  is  merely  ornament,  but  the  expression  of  a 
certain  spiritual  state,  a  certain  eiat  d'ame,  and  that 
there  is  always  room  for  poetic  plays.  Dear  Brutus 
contained  much  of  the  poetic  essence  ;  so  docs  Mary 
Rose.  But  their  language  is  prose,  and  our  young 
aspirants  may  be  recommended  to  write  in  prose,  for 
which  their  previous  verse-exercises  will  have  been 
a  useful  preparation.  Only  let  them  hurry  up  !  Let 
their  hearts  swell  with  the  proud  hope  of  creating 
that  magnificent  affair,  which  demands  capital 
letters,  the  Drama  of  the  Future.  Mr.  Bergson  told 
us  at  Oxford  that  when  an  interviewer  invited  him 
to  forecast  the  drama  of  the  future  he  answered, 
"  If  I  could  do  that  I'd  write  it."  So  we  can  only 
wonder  what  it  will  be  like.  "  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson 
to  Boswcll  who  was  "  wondering,"  "  you  may 
wonder." 


148 


DISRAELI    AND    THE    PLAY 

We  have  all  been  reading  Mr.  Buckle's  concluding 
volumes,  and  when  we  have  recovered  from  the 
fascination  of  the  great  man  and  the  splendid 
historical  pageant  they  present  to  us,  we  dip  into 
them  again  in  search  of  trifles  agreeable  to  our  own 
individual  taste.  And  I  shall  make  no  apology  for 
turning  for  a  moment  from  Disraeli  in  robes  of 
ceremony,  the  friend  of  Sovereigns,  the  hero  of 
Congresses,  the  great  statesman  and  great  Parliament 
man,  to  Disraeli  the  playgoer.  That  dazzling  figure 
is  not  readily  thought  of  as  a  unit  in  the  common 
playhouse  crowd.  Yet  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  relief 
from  the  im[)osing  spectacle  of  great  numdane 
affairs  that  you  find  Disraeli,  after  receiving  in  the 
afternoon  the  ''  awful  news  "  of  the  Russian  ultima- 
tum to  Turkey  (October,  1876),  going  in  the  evening 
with  his  Stafford  House  hosts  to  sec  Peril  at  the 
Haymarket,  and  pleased  with  the  acting  of  Mrs. 
Kendal.  The  play,  he  tells  his  correspondent,  Lady 
Bradford,  is — 

"  An  adaptation  from  the  French  Xus  Intimes — 
not  over-moral,  but  fairly  transmogrified  from  the 
original,   and   cleverly   acted    in    the   chief  part — a 

149 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

woman  whom,  I  doubt  not,  you,  an  Jiabituce  of  the 
drama,  know  very  well,  but  quite  new  to  me.  Now 
she  is  married,  but  she  was  a  sister  of  Robertson,  the 
playwright.  She  had  evidently  studied  in  the  French 
sehool.  The  whole  was  good  and  the  theatre  was 
ventilated  ;  so  I  did  not  feel  exhausted,  and  was 
rather  amused,  and  slid,  rather  have  enjoyed  myself 
had  not  the  bad  news  thrown  its  dark  shadow  over 
one's  haunted  eonseiousness.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Kendal's  training  was,  I  fancy,  entirely 
English,  but  her  acting  was  on  a  level  with  the  best 
of  "  the  French  sehool."  Disraeli  was  an  old 
admirer  of  French  acting,  as  we  know  from 
"  Coningsby,"'  and  I  think  it  is  pretty  clear  from 
the  same  source  that  he  particularly  liked  Dejazet. 
For  he  had  Dejazet  in  mind,  I  guess,  in  tiic  member 
of  Villebccque's  troop  of  French  comedians  engaged 
for  the  delectation  of  Lord  Monmouth,  "  a  lady  of 
maturcr  years  who  performed  the  heroines,  gay  and 
graceful  as  May."  This  was  the  lady,  it  will  be 
remembered,  who  saved  the  situation  when  Mile. 
Flora  broke  down.  "  The  failure  of  Flora  had  given 
fresh  animation  to  her  perpetual  liveliness.  She 
seemed  the  very  soul  of  elegant  frolic.  In  the  last 
scene  she  figured  in  male  attire  ;  and  in  air,  fashion, 
and  youth  beat  Vilkbtcciue  out  of  tiie  field.  She 
looked  younger  than  Coningsby  when  he  went  up 
to  his  grandpapa."  This  is  Dejazet  to  the  life. 
The  whole  episode  of  the  French  players  in  "  Conings- 
by "   shows    Disraeli  as    not   only   an   experienced 

150 


DISRAELI    AND    THE    PLAY 

playgoer  but  a  connoisseur  of  the  theatre.  His  de- 
scription of  tlic  company  is  dcliciously  knowing — 
from  the  young  lady  wlio  played  old  woman's  parts, 
"  nothing  could  be  more  garrulous  and  venerable," 
and  the  old  man  who  "  was  rather  hard,  but  handy  ; 
could  take  anything  either  in  tlic  higii  serious  or  the 
low  droll,"  to  the  sentimental  lover  who  "  was 
rather  too  much  bewiggcd,  and  spoke  too  much  to 
the  audience,  a  fault  rare  with  the  French  ;  but  this 
hero  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  was  ultimately 
destined  to  run  off  with  a  princess." 

In  "  Tancred  "  there  is  another,  and  an  entirely 
charming,  glimpse  of  French  strolling  players  or 
strollers  who  played  in  French,  the  Baroni  family — 
"  Baroni  ;  that  is,  the  son  of  Aaron  ;  the  name  of 
old  clothesmen  in  London,  and  of  Caliphs  in  Bagli- 
dad."  There  is  no  more  engaging  incident  in  the 
romantic  career  of  Sidonia  than  his  encounter  with 
this  family  in  a  little  Fiandirs  town.  They  played 
in  a  barn,  to  which  Sidonia  had  taken  care  that  all 
the  little  boys  should  be  admitted  free,  and  Mile. 
Josepliine  advanced  warmly  cheered  by  the  specta- 
tors, "  wlio  thought  they  were  going  to  have  some 
more  tumbling.'  It  was  Racine's  ""  Andromaque," 
however,  that  she  presented,  and  "  it  seemed  to 
Sidonia  that  he  had  never  listened  to  a  voice  more 
rich  and  passionate,  to  an  elocution  more  complete  ; 
he  gazed  with  admiration  on  her  lightning  glance 
and  all  the  tunuill  of  iier  noble  brow.*  Sidonia 
played  fairy  godmother  to  the   whole  family,  and 

151 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

"  Mile.  Josephine  is  at  this  moment  [1849]  the  glory 
of  the  French  stage  ;  Avithout  any  question  the  most 
adnnrable  tragic  actress  since  Clairon,  and  inferior 
not  even  to  her."  If  for  Josephine  we  read  Rachel, 
we  shall  not  be  far  ^\Tong. 

Anyhow,  it  is  evident  that,  when  Disraeli  thought 
Mrs.  Kendal  must  have  studied  in  the  French  school, 
he  was  paying  her  the  highest  compliment  at  his 
disposal.  It  is  disappointing  that  we  have  no 
criticism  from  Disraeli  of  Sarah  Bernhardt.  Matthew 
Arnold  said  that  Sarah  left  off  where  Rachel  began. 
Disraeli  says  nothing,  which  is  perhaps  significant, 
for  he  did  see  Sarah.  He  was  first  asked  to  see  her 
play  at  a  partj"  at  Lord  Dudley's,  but  declined,  as 
he  "  could  not  forgo  country  air."  A  few  weeks 
later,  however,  he  was  at  the  Wiltons',  where  "  the 
principal  saloon,  turned  into  a  charming  theatre, 
received  the  world  to  witness  the  heroine  of  the  hour, 
Sarah  Bernhardt."  And  that  is  all.  A  playgoer 
of  seventy-five  is  hardly  disposed  to  take  up  with 
new  favourites — which  accounts,  perhaps,  for  Dis- 
raeli's verdict  on  Irving.  "  I  liked  the  Corsican 
Brothers  as  a  melodrama,"  he  writes  to  Lady  Brad- 
ford (November,  1880),  "  and  never  saw  anything 
put  cleverer  on  the  stage.  Irving  whom  I  saw  for 
the  first  time,  is  third-rate,  and  never  will  improve, 
but  good  eno'  for  the  part  he  played,  tho'  he  con- 
tinually reminded  me  of  Lord  Dudley.  .  .  ."  Why 
"  though  "  ? 

On  another  popular  favourite  he  was  even  harder. 
152 


DISRAELI    AND    THE    PLAY 

Writing  again  to  Lady  Bradford,  he  says  : — "  Except 
at  Wycombe  Fair,  in  my  youth,  I  have  never  seen 
anything  so  bad  as  Pinafore.     It  was   not   even    a 
burlesque,  a  sort  of  provincial  Black-eyed  Susan. 
Princess  Mary's  face  spoke  vohimcs  of  disgust  and 
disappointment,  but  who  cd.  have  told  her  to  go 
there  ?  "     Staying  later  at  Hatfield,   however,   he 
found  all  the  Cecil  youngsters  singing  the  Pinafore 
music.     A  few  years  earlier  he  tells  Lady  Bradford 
a  story  he  had  just  heard  from  a  friend  of  a  visit 
paid  by  a  distinguished   Opposition  party  to  The 
Heir  at  Law  at  the  old  Hay  market.     "  Into  one  of 
the  stalls  came  Ld.  Granville  ;  then  in  a  little  time, 
Gladstone  ;  then,  at  last,  Harty -Tarty  !     Gladstone 
laughed  very  much  at  the  performance  ;  IL-T.  never 
even     smiled.       3     conspirators.  ..."       Another 
remarkable  trio  figures  in  another  story.     Disraeli 
had  been  to  the  Aquarium  to  see  a  famous  ape  and 
the   lady   who   used  to   be   shot  out  of  a   cannon. 
"  Chaffed  "  (if  the  word  is  not  improper)  about  this 
by  the  Queen  at  the  Royal  dinner  table,  Disraeli 
said,    "  There  were  three    sights,    madam  ;    Zazcl, 
Pongo,  and  myself." 

It  will  be  seen  that  there  are  few  records  of  Dis- 
raeli's playgoing  or  show-going  in  his  old  age. 
Gladstone,  we  know,  was  to  the  last  a  frequent 
playgoer — and,  I  believe,  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  Irving.  Disraeli,  I  take  it,  had  become  ratlier 
the  book-lover  tluin  the  playgoer.  Tiie  humblest 
of  us  may  share  that  taste  with  the  great  man,  and 

153 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

even  take  refuge  in  his  illustrious  example  for  the 
habit,  denounced  by  the  austere,  of  reading  over 
solitary  meals.  Mr.  Bueklc  tells  us  that  "  over  his 
solitary  and  simple  dinner  he  would  read  one  of  his 
favourite  authors,  mostly  classics  of  cither  Latin, 
Italian  Renaissance,  or  English  eighteenth  century 
literature,  pausing  for  ten  minutes  between  each 
course."  That  passage  will  endear  Disraeli  to  many 
of  us,  simple,  home-keeping  people,  unacquainted 
with  Courts  and  Parliaments,  who  feel,  perhaps,  a 
little  bewildered  amid  the  processional  "  drums  and 
tramplings  "  and  the  gorgeous  triumphs  of  his  public 
career. 


I6i 


HENRY  JAMES    AND   THE  THEATRE 

Are  not  the  friends  of  Henry  James  inclined  to 
be  a  little  too  solemn  when  they  write  about  him, 
perhaps  feeling  that  they  must  rise  to  the  oeeasion 
and  i)iit  on  their  best  style,  as  though  he  had  his 
eye  on  them  and  would  be  "  down  "  on  any  lapses  ? 
An  admirable  reviewer  of  the  Letters  in  the  Literary 
Supplement  seemed,  indeed,  so  overcome  by  his 
subject  as  to  have  fallen  into  one  of  Henry  James's 
least  amiable  mannerisms — his  introduction  of 
elaborate  "  figures,"  relentlessly  worked  out  and 
at  last  lagging  superlluous.  And  the  editor  of  tiic 
Letters,  admirably,  too,  as  he  has  done  his  work, 
is  just  a  little  bleak,  isn't  he  ? — wearing  the  grave 
face  of  the  historian  and  mindful  never  to  become 
familiar.  "  Thank  Heaven  !  "'  one  seems  to  hear 
these  \vritcrs  saying  to  themselves  ;  "  even  he  eoidd 
never  have  called  this  vidgar."  Such  is  the  post- 
humous inlhienee  of  the  fastidious  "  master  "  ! 
I  daresay  I  am  captious.  One  is  never  (jiiilc 
satisfied  with  what  one  sees  in  j)riiit  about  pcoph- 
one  loved.  One  always  thinks  it  is,  at  any  rate,  a 
pleasing  illusion — that  one  has  ones  own  key  to  that 

155 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

particular  cipher,  and  to  see  the  thing  not  merely 
given  away  but  authoritatively  expounded  in  print 
is  rather  a  nuisance.  Look  at  the  number  of  fair 
ladies  to  whom  Henry  James  wrote  letters  rich  in  inti- 
mate charm  (oh  !  and,  as  he  would  have  said,  of  a 
decorum  !) — ])erhaps  each  of  them  thouglit  she  had 
the  best  corner  of  his  heart.  The  most  immaculate 
of  women,  young  and  old,  matrons  and  maidens,  rvill 
sentimentalize  their  men  friends  in  this  way.  How 
could  Henry  James  have  escaped  ?  Well,  if  any  one 
of  these  ladies  had  edited  the  Letters  or  reviewed 
them,  wouldn't  each  of  the  others  have  said  :  "  No, 
that  isn't  my  Henry  James — sJie  never  understood 
him,  poor  dear  "  ?  I  apologize  for  this  fli})pant  way 
of  putting  it  to  the  two  refined  writers  I  began  by 
mentioning.  But,  as  the  lady  says  in  'The  Spoils  of 
Poynton,  "  I'm  quite  coarse,  thank  God  !  '' 

Henry  James,  imfortunately  for  his  theatrical 
ambitions,  never  was.  You  must  not  only  be  coarse 
in  grain,  but  tough  in  hide,  for  success  in  the  theatre. 
Everybody  knows  that  Henry  James  achie\'ed  only 
failure  there,  cither  crushing  failure  amid  hootings 
and  yells,  as  with  Guy  Domville,  or  that  very  signifi- 
cant failure  which  is  called  a  success  of  "  esteem," 
as  with  his  stage  versions  of  Tlie  American  and 
Covering  End.  But  not  everybody  knows  how  he 
positively  yearned  for  the  big  pojiular  success,  and 
for  that  biggest,  loudest,  most  brazen-trumpeted  of 
successes,  success  in  the  theatre.  He  talks  in  his 
letters  as  though  he  actually  needed  the  money, 
156 


HENRY    JAMES    AND     THEATRE 

but  it  was  really  not  so.  He  looked  round  the  world 
and  found  it  teeming  with  "  best  sellers,"  idols  of 
the  multitude,  who  by  any  standards  of  his  simply 
couldn't  "  \vrite,"  didn't  artistically  "  exist."  And 
the  most  pathetic  thing  in  his  letters  is  their  evidence 
that  he  began,  aye  !  and  went  on,  with  the  illusion 
that  he,  such  as  he  was,  the  absolute  artist,  might 
some  day  become  a  "  best  seller."  Even  so  late  as 
the  days  of  his  Collected  Edition  it  came  as  a  shock 
to  him  that  the  great  public  wouldn't  buy. 

It  is  evident  that  he  had  good  hopes,  beforehand, 
of  Guy  Domville.  And  yet  he  hated  the  actual 
process  of  production.  The  rehearsal,  he  says,  is 
"  as  amazing  as  anything  can  be,  for  a  man  of 
taste  and  sensibility,  in  the  odious  process  of  practical 
dramatic  production.  I  may  have  been  meant  for 
the  Drama — God  knows  ! — btit  I  certainly  wasn't 
meant  for  the  Theatre."  And  when  dire  failure 
came,  it  wasn't,  he  says,  from  any  defect  of  tech- 
nique. "  I  have  worked  like  a  horse — far  harder 
than  any  one  will  ever  know — over  the  whole  stiff 
mysterj'  of  '  technique  ' — I  have  run  it  to  earth,  and 
I  don't  in  the  least  hesitate  to  say  that,  for  the 
comparatively  poor  and  meagre,  the  pitcously 
simjilificd  purposes  of  the  English  stage,  I  have  made 
it  absolutely  my  own,  put  it  into  my  pocket."  No, 
the  fault  must  be  in  his  choice  of  subject.  "  Tiie 
question  of  realizing  how  different  is  the  attitude  of 
the  tlieatre-goer  toward  the  (juaiity  of  things  wliich 
might  be  a  story  in  a  hook  from  his  attitude  toward 
167 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

the  quality  of  tiling  that  is  given  to  him  as  a  story 
in  a  play  is  another  matter  altogether.  That 
difticnlty  is  portentous,  for  any  writer  who  doesn't 
ui)proach  it  naively,  as  only  a  very  limited  and 
simple-minded  writer  can.  One  has  to  7nake 
oneself  so  limited  and  simple  to  conceive  a  subject, 
see  a  subject,  simply  enough,  and  that,  in  a  nutshell, 
is  where  I  have  stumbled.''  "  And  yet."  he  adds, 
pathetically  enough  (writing  to  his  brother),  "  if 
you  were  to  have  seen  my  play  !  "  He  knew  he  had 
done  good  work,  in  his  own  way,  and  the  plain  fact 
that  his  way  was  a  way  whieh  the  gross  theatre 
public  would  not  understand  or  sympathize  with 
was  a  terrible  blow  to  him. 

The  process  of  turning  himself  into  a  simple- 
minded  writer — that  is,  of  making  a  sow's  ear  out 
of  a  silk  purse,  was,  of  course,  impossible.  One 
doesn't  want  to  wallow  in  the  obvious.  But  doesn't 
it  leap  at  the  eyes  that  an  artist  who  seeks  to  abandon 
his  own  temperament  and  point  of  view  for  another's 
will  forfeit  all  chance  of  tiiat  spontaneous  joy  without 
which  there  is  no  artistic  creation  ?  Fortunately, 
this  theatrical  malady  of  Henry  James's  (though  he 
had  one  or  two  recurrent  twinges  of  it)  never  became 
chronic.  The  history  of  his  real  work  is  a  history 
not  of  self-renunciation,  but  of  self-development,  of 
abounding,  as  the  French  say,  in  his  own  sense. 
As  to  the  theatrical  teehnicpie  whieh  he  had  put  into 
his  pocket  he  certainly  kept  it  there.  Like  most 
laboriously  acquired,  alien  techniques  it  was  too 
158 


HENRY  JAMES  AND  THEATRE 

technical,  too  '*  architectooralooral  " — as  any  one 
can  see  who  dips  into  his  two  forgotten  volumes  of 
"  Theatricals."  His  own  proper  technique  was  a 
very  different  thing,  an  entirely  individual  thing, 
and  no  reader  of  his  books  can  have  failed  to  notice 
how  he  gradually  perfected  it  as  he  went  along.  It 
reached  its  highest  point,  to  my  thinking,  in  The 
Ambassador fi,  surely  the  greatest  of  his  books 
(though  over  this  question  the  fierce  tribe  of  Jacobites 
will  fight  to  their  last  gasp),  when  everything, 
absolutely  everything,  is  shown  as  seen  through  the 
eyes  of  Strethcr.  To  see  a  thing  so  "  done  "  as  he 
would  have  said,  an  artistic  difhculty  so  triumphantly 
mastered,  is  among  the  rarest  and  most  exquisite 
pleasures  of  life.  That  was  Henry  James's  function, 
to  give  us  rare  and  exquisite  pleasures,  of  a  quality 
never  to  be  had  in  the  modern  theatre.  He  was  no 
theatrical  man,  but  he  could,  when  he  chose,  be  the 
most  delicate  of  dramatic  critics.  Read  what  he 
says  in  these  Letters  about  Rostand's  L\liglon 
("  the  man  really  has  talent  like  an  attack  of  small- 
pox "),  about  Bernstein's  Lc  Secret  as  a  *'  case," 
about  Ibsen,  ''  bottomlessly  bourgeois  .  .  .  and  yet 
of  his  art  he's  a  master — and  I  feel  in  him,  to  the 
pitch  of  almost  intolerable  boredom,  tlie  j)resencc 
and  the  insistence  of  life." 


159 


THEATRICAL    AMORISM 

"  The  stage  is  more  beholding  to  love  than  the 
life  of  man.  For  as  to  the  stage,  love  is  ever  matter 
of  comedies,  and  now  and  then  of  tragedies  ;  but  in 
life,  it  doth  much  mischief ;  sometimes  like  a  siren  ; 
sometimes  like  a  fury."  It  is  one  of  the  few  things 
the  general  reader  is  able  to  quote  from  Bacon,  who 
goes  on  to  make  some  pointed  remarks  about  love 
in  life,  but  drops  all  reference  to  love  on  the  stage, 
which  he  would  hardly  have  done  had  he  been 
Shakespeare. 

But  the  converse  question,  how  far  love  is  "  be- 
holding "  to  the  stage — what  treatment  it  has 
received  there,  what  justice  the  stage  has  done  to 
it — is  certainly  not  without  interest.  Life  is  not 
long  enough  to  deal  with  the  whole  question,  rang- 
ing through  the  ages,  but  it  may  be  worth  while  to 
consider  for  a  moment  what  our  contemporary  Eng- 
lish stage  is  doing  with  the  theme.  Are  our  play- 
wrights addressing  themselves  to  it  with  sincerity, 
with  veracity,  with  real  insight  ?  Or  are  they  just 
"  muddling  through "  with  it,  repeating  familiar 
commonplaces  about  it,  not  troubling  themselves 
"  to  see  the  thing  as  it  really  is  "  ?  These  questions 
160 


THEATRICAL    AMORISM 

have  occurred  to  me  in  thinking  over  Mr.  Arnold 
Bennett's  Sacred  and  Profane  Love.  Thinking'  it 
over  !  interrupts  the  ingenuous  reader  ;  but  have 
you  not  already  reviewed  it  ?  So  it  may  be  well  to 
explain  that  one  "  notices  "  a  play  and  then  thinks 
it  over.  True,  one's  "  notice  "" — the  virtually  instan- 
taneous record  of  one's  first  im])ressions — sometimes 
wears  a  specious  appearance  of  thought.  But  that 
is  one  of  the  wicked  deceptions  of  journalism, 
mainly  designed  to  appease  eager  people  of  the  sort 
who  rush  up  to  you  the  moment  the  curtain  is  down 
on  the  First  Act  to  ask  :  ""  Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  it  ?  ■'  In  reality,  as  the  wil}'  reader  knows,  it  is 
at  best  only  thought  in  the  making,  a  casting  about 
for  thought.  Not  until  you  have  read  it  yourself 
next  morning  can  you  begin  (if  you  ever  do  begin) 
to  think.  So,  as  I  say,  I  have  been  thinking  over 
Mr.  Bennett's  Sacred  and  Profane  Love. 

It  is  not  what  used  to  be  called  a  "  well-made  " 
play.  Its  main  interest  is  not  cumulative,  but  is 
suspended  for  a  whole  act  and,  at  its  most  critical 
|)()int,  relegated  to  an  inter-act.  In  Act  I.  tin:  yoimg 
Carlotta  gives  herself  to  Diaz.  In  Act  II.  (seven 
years  later)  Diaz  has  dropped  clean  out.  Carlotta, 
now  a  famous  novelist,  is  in  love  with  somebody  else 
and  shows  herself  strong  enough  to  renounce  her 
love.  Act  III.  resumes  the  Carlotta-Dia/  story.  He 
has  become  an  abject  mor|)hiiK)maiiiae  ;  she  li<roir- 
ally  devotes  lurself,  body  and  soul,  to  the  ttrriblc 
t;isk  of  rccliiiniing  liiin.     liclucni  Ads  III.  .nul   IV. 

p.p.  161  M 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

(fourteen  months)  this  terrible  task  is  accompHshcd. 
Wc  have  to  take  it  on  trust,  a  rather  "  large  order." 
Aet  IV.  ends  the  Carlotta-Diaz  story  in  marriage. 
Obviously  it  is  not  a  well-told  story.  It  has  a  long 
digression,  and  the  speetator's  attention  is  misled  ; 
it  assumes  a  miracle  behind  the  scenes,  and  the 
spectator's  credulity  is  over-taxed.  Act  II.  is  a  play 
within  a  play  ;  how  Carlotta  nearly  ran  away  with 
her  publisher.  In  Aet  IV.  you  cannot  accept  the 
alleged  recovery  of  the  morphinomaniac,  you  expect 
him  to  "  break  out  "  again  at  any  moment.  Of 
course,  the  story  being  what  it  is,  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  Years  of  rising  to  fame  as  a  novelist,  months 
of  struggling  with  a  drug  victim,  cannot  be  shown 
on  the  stage.  Only,  WTitcrs  of  well-made  plays  do 
not  choose  such  stories. 

But  is  this  treating  the  play  fairly  ?  Is  it  just  a 
story,  the  story  of  Carlotta  and  Diaz  ?  Suppose  we 
look  at  it  in  another  way,  suppose  we  consider  it  as 
a  study  of  modern  love,  or,  more  particularly,  of  the 
modern  woman  in  love.  Then  the  play  at  once 
looks  much  more  shipshape.  It  is  the  education 
sentimcnialc  of  Carlotta.  The  second  aet  ceases  to 
be  episodical  ;  it  is  one  of  the  stages  in  Carlotta's 
"  love-hfe  "  (as  Ibsen's  Ella  Renthcim  calls  it).  The 
miracle  of  Diaz's  reclamation  between  the  acts 
ceases  to  worry  us  ;  it  only  prepares  another  stage 
in  Carlotta's  love-life.  And,  from  this  point  of  view, 
I  think  Mr.  Bennett  has  achieved  something  much 
better  than  the  construction  of  a  well-made  play. 
162 


THEATRICAL    A  M  O  R I S  M 

He  has  given   us,   in   his  downriglit    matter-of-fact 

way,  a  close  study  of  modern  love  in  the  case  of  a 

woman  made  for  love,  living  for  it,  able  to  dominate 

it  and  to  turn  it  to  heroic  purpose.     She  starts  her 

career  of  love  by  "  giving  herself  "  to  a  man  who  is 

almost  a  stranger.       I  suppose  tliis  is  considered  a 

"  bold  "  scene.     But  it  is,  evidently,  there  from  no 

cheap   purpose  of  "  audacity,"   it  is  no  calculated 

fling  at  the  proprieties.    Mr.  Bennett — it  is  his  way 

— indifferently  dejiicts  human  nature  as  he  sees  it, 

and  the  girl's  "  fall  "  is  natural  enough.    In  a  milieu 

of  prosaic  provincialism  (if  one  may  venture  so  to 

qualify  the  Five  Towns)  she  is  thrown  into  contact 

with   a   romantic   figure   from   the   great    world,    a 

famous  pianist  who  has  just  enraptured  her  with 

his  music,  the  embodiment  of  all  her  artistic  ideals. 

She  is  of  an  amorous  temperament  (and  since  Mr. 

Bennett  is  undertaking  a  study  of  love,  it  would  be 

no  use  choosing  an  ascetic  heroine).    The  inevitable 

happens.    When  next  seen,  she  has  not  seen  or  heard 

of  the  man  for  years  since  their  one  meeting.    They 

have  been  years  of  strenuous  labour,  and  she  is  a 

successful  novelist.     But   she  has  not  parted  with 

her  temperament,  and  she  falls  in  love  with,  so  to 

speak,  the  nearest  man.     lie  seems  a  poor  creature 

for  so  superior  a  woman  to  choose — but  such  a  choice 

is   one    of   the   conmionplaces   of  life.      \Vlien    she 

realizes  the  misery  she  is  causing  to  I  lie  man's  wife 

she  promptly  renoimces  him.    (The  wife  has  a  little 

past   love-history  of  her  own — Mr.  Bemutt  neglects 

168  Ma 


PA  STIC  UK     AM)     rUKJl'DICK 

no  facet  of  liis  subject.)  Then  Carlotta  hears  of  Diaz 
and  his  niorphinoniania,  conceives  forthwith  her 
lieroic  project  of  reseuinjr  him,  takes  uj)  her  lot  with 
him  again,  and  pulls  him  through.  When  he  is  him- 
self again,  he  reveals  the  egoism  of  the  absolute 
artist.  Carlotta  must  not  accompany  him  to  the 
concert,  because  she  would  make  him  nervous.  She 
obeys,  and  is  left  in  an  agony  of  suspense  at  home. 
When  tiie  concert  has  ended  in  triumph,  he  nnist  be 
off  (without  his  wife)  to  an  influential  patron's 
party.  She  acquiesces  again,  not  without  tears. 
The  men  she  loves  arc  not  worthy  of  her  ;  but  she 
must  love  them,  she  was  made  for  love.  There  is 
talk  of  marriage  at  the  end.  It  seems  an  anti- 
climax. 

I  find  that  I  have  been  discussing  Mr.  Bennett's 
play  instead  of  the  general  question  into  which  I 
proposed  to  inquire — the  treatment  of  love  by  our 
dramatists  of  to-day.  It  looks,  I  fear,  like  the  fami- 
liar device  of  a  reviewer  for  running  away  from  his 
subject — "  imfortunately,  our  space  will  not  permit, 
&c.  ' — always  very  usefid  when  the  subject  is  getting 
ticklish.  IJiit  the  fact  that  I  have  had  to  dwell  on 
Mr.  Bennett's  case  rather  shows  how  rare  that  case 
is  with  us.  The  general  treatment  of  love  on  our 
ktagc  is,  it  seems  to  me,  inadeipiate.  Either  it  is  a 
mere  ficelle,  an  expedient  for  a  plot,  or  it  is  apt  to  be 
conventional,  second-hand,  unobserved.  We  want 
fresh,  jmtient,  and  fearless  studies  of  it  on  our  stage. 
I  am  not  asking  for  calculated  "  audacity  "'  or 
164 


THEATRICAL    AM ORIS M 

salacity  (there  lias  never  been  any  dearth  of  that), 
but  for  veraeity.  Though  the  siibjeet  is  the  oldest 
in  the  world,  it  is  always  becoming  new.  There  are 
subtleties,  fine  shades,  in  our  modern  love  that  can- 
not have  been  known  to  the  Victorians  ;  yet  most 
of  our  stage-love  to-day  remains  placidly  Victorian. 
Was  it  Rochefoucauld  or  Chamfort  who  spoke  of  the 
many  people  who  would  never  fall  in  love  if  they 
hadn't  heard  it  talked  about  ?  But  think  how  we 
of  to-day  have  all  heard  it  talked  about,  what  books 
we  have  read  about  it  !  The  old  passion  has  put  on 
a  new  consciousness,  and  calls  for  a  new  stage-treat- 
ment. Where  is  our  Donnay  or  our  Porto-Riche  ? 
They,  perhaps,  pursue  their  inquiries  a  little  farther 
than  would  suit  our  British  delicacy  ;  but  our  play- 
WTights  might  at  least  take  a  leaf  out  of  their  book 
in  the  matter  of  veracity,  instead  of  mechanically 
repeating  the  old  commonplaces. 


H)> 


H.    B.    IRVING 

There  is  a  commonplace  about  the  evanescent 
glory  of  actors  that  will  hardly  bear  close  scrutiny. 
It  is  said  that,  as  they  live  more  intensely  than  other 
men,  enjoying  their  reward  on  the  spot,  so  they  die 
more  completely,  and  leave  behind  nothing  but  a 
name.  Even  so,  are  they  worse  off  than  the  famous 
authors  whom  nobody  ever  reads  ?  Or  than  the 
famous  painters  whose  works  have  disappeared  ? 
Which  is  the  more  live  figure  for  us  to-day,  John 
Kemble,  who  played  in  the  Iron  Chest,  or  William 
Godwin,  who  wrote  the  original  story  ?  Is  Zeuxis 
or  Apelles  anything  more  than  a  name  ?  It  is  said 
that  whereas  other  artists  survive  in  their  work,  the 
actor's  dies  with  him.  But  we  make  of  every  work 
of  art  a  palimpsest,  and  it  is  for  us  what  we  ourselves 
have  written  over  its  original  text — so  that  the  artist 
only  lives  vicariously,  through  our  own  life — while 
the  dead  actor's  work  stands  inviolate,  out  of  our 
reach,  a  final  thing.  Lamb  says  of  Dodd's  Ague- 
cheek,  *'  a  part  of  his  forehead  would  catch  a  little 
intelligence,  and  be  a  long  time  in  comnuuiicating 
it  to  the  remainder."  Nothing  can  alter  that 
torchcad  now  ;  but  if  Dodd  could  have  left  it  behind 
16G 


II.    B.    IRVING 

him,  we  should  be  all  agog  to  revise  the  verdict.  So 
Mrs.  Siddons  was  famous  for  her  oraceful  manner 
of  dismissing  the  guests  at  Maebcth's  banquet. 
Nothing  ean  impair  that  graee  now  ;  could  it  have 
been  handed  down,  we  should  be  having  two  opinions 
about  it.  Dead  actors,  then,  live  again  in  the  pages 
that  commemorate  them,  and  they  live  more  securely 
than  the  artists  whose  works  survive.  They  are  no 
longer  the  sport  of  opinion. 

But  this  is  only  casuistry,  the  vain  effort  to  seek 
consolation  for  the  death  of  a  friend.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  a  boon  companion,  but  of  something 
much  better,  of  that  ideal,  disinterested  friend  which 
every  actor  is  for  us  on  the  stage,  giving  us  his  mind 
and  heart  and  temperament  and  physical  being, 
immolating  his  very  self  for  us,  and  at  the  end  (I 
can  see  Henry  Irving  the  elder  standing  before  the 
curtain  as  he  uttered  the  words)  our  "  obliged, 
respectful,  loving  servant."  This  is  pure  friendsiiiji, 
purer  than  any  private  intimacy,  with  its  inevitable 
contacts  and  reserves  of  different  egoisms.  AVhy  does 
my  mind  go  back  to  the  elder  Irving  ?  Because  I 
am  thinking  of  his  son  Harry,  who  was  so  like  him 
(too  like  him,  it  was  a  perpetual  handieaj)),  and 
never  more  like  him  than  in  that  pride  which  does 
not  ape  humihty  but  feels  it — the  pride  of  the  artist 
in  his  art  and  the  humility  of  the  devotee  in  the 
temj)lc  of  art.  Indeed,  I  tiiink  Il.irry  Irving  had  an 
almost  superstitious  reverence  for  his  profession.  He 
had  it  perhaps  not  merely  because  he  was  his  fathers 

1G7 


PASTICHE    AM)     I'UEJUDKE 

soil,  but  also  because  lie  was  his  fatlier's  son  with  a 
difference,  an  academic  difference  ;  Jic  was  one  of  a 
little  band  of  Oxford  men  whose  adoption  of  the 
stage  was,  in  those  days,  a  breach  with  orthodox 
Oxford  tradition.  All  that,  I  daresay,  is  altered  now. 
In  an  Oxford  which  has  widened  Magdalen  Bridge 
and  built  itself  new  Schools  anything  is  possible, 
liut  in  those  days  undergraduates  were  not  habitually 
qualifying  for  the  stage  ;  indeed,  the  old  "  Vie  "  in 
term-time  was  out  of  bounds.  The  old  "  Vic  "  had 
only  just  disapiK'arod  when  I  went  up  to  see  young 
Irving  as  Dceius  lirutus  in  Julius  Ccesar,  and  H.  B. 
was  still  very  much  an  undergraduate.  Heavens  ! 
the  pink  and  green  sweets  we  ate  at  supper  not  far 
from  Tom  Tower  after  the  show — the  sweets  that 
only  undergraduates  can  cat  !  If  I  remember  the 
sweets  better  than  the  Deeius  Brutus,  it  will  be 
indulgent  to  infer  that  Harry  Ir\ing's  debut  was  not 
of  the  most  remarkable.  But  his  reverence  for  the 
histrionic  art  was,  even  tlien.  I  teazed  him  (youthful 
critics  have  a  crude  appetite  for  controversy)  by 
starting  an  assault,  entirely  theoretical  and  Pick- 
wickian, on  that  reverential  attitude  ;  we  beat  over 
the  ground  from  Plato  to  Bossuet  ;  and  I  think  it 
took  him  some  time  to  forgive  me. 

In  his  earlier  years  on  the  stage  he  was  a  little  stiff 
and  formal — characteristics  which  were  not  at  all 
to  his  disadvantage  in  the  young  prig  of  The  Princess 
and  the  Bulterjhj  and  the  solemn  young  man-about- 
town  of  Letty  (though  the  smart  l^ond  Street  suit 

IGS 


II.    B.    IRVING 

and  patent  leatlier  .shoes  ul'  the  niaii-about-town 
were  obviously  a  sore  trial  to  a  boy  who,  from  his 
earliest  years,  dressed  after  his  father).  I  imagine 
his  Criehton  (1902)  was  his  first  real  success  in  Lon- 
don, and  an  admirable  Criehton  it  was,  standing  out, 
as  the  play  demanded,  with  that  \igour  and  stamj)  of 
personal  domination  which  he  had  inherited  from 
his  father.  His  Hamlet,  though  his  most  important, 
was  hardly  his  best  part.  It  was  too  cerebral.  J>ut 
is  not  Hamlet,  some  one  will  ask,  the  very  prince  of 
cerebrals  ?  Yes,  but  Hamlet  has  grace  as  well  as 
thought,  sweetness  as  well  as  light.  Harry  Irving's 
Hamlet  (of  1905,  he  softened  mucii  in  the  later 
revival)  was  a  little  didactic,  almost  donnish.  He 
hardened  the  hardness  of  Hamlet — particularly  his 
hardness  to  women,  Ophelia  and  Gertrude,  which 
we  need  not  be  sickly  sentimentalists  to  dislike  seeing 
emphasized.  In  a  word  he  was  impressive  rather 
than  charming — was  perhaps  almost  harsh  after  the 
conspicuously  charming  Hamlet  of  Forbes-Robert- 
son. Nevertheless,  if  Harry  Irving's  Hamlet  was 
second  to  Forbes-Robertson's,  it  was  a  very  good 
second. 

He  had  his  father's  rather  Mephistophelean 
humour — but  I  am  annoyed  to  find  myself  always 
harping  on  his  father.  It  is  a  tiresome  obsession. 
None  suffered  from  it  more  than  the  son  himself,  at 
once  hero  and  martyr  f)f  filial  piety.  Hi-  invited 
coniparison,  playing  as  many  as  jjossible  of  his 
fatlur's  old  parts,  all  ragged  and  threadbare  as  they 
100 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

had  become.  But  he  lacked  the  quahty  which 
originally  saved  them,  the  romantic  flamboyant 
baroque  quality  of  his  father's  genius.  Sir  Henry 
impressed  himself  upon  his  time  by  sheer  force  of 
individuality  and  by  what  Byron  calls  "  magnopcra- 
tion."  He  was  a  great  manager  as  well  as  a  great 
actor,  doing  everything  on  a  gigantic  scale  and  in  the 
grand  style.  He  was  a  splendid  figure  of  romance, 
off  as  well  as  on  the  stage.  It  was  hopeless  to  pro- 
voke comparison  with  such  a  being  as  this.  Though 
the  son  showed  the  family  likeness  he  was  naturally 
a  reasonable  man,  a  scholar,  a  man  of  discursive 
analytic  mind  rather  than  of  the  instinctive  perfervid 
histrionic  temperament.  It  was  always  a  pleasure 
to  swop  ideas  with  him,  to  talk  to  him  about  the 
principles  of  his  art,  the  great  criminals  of  history, 
or  the  latest  murder  trial  he  had  been  attending  at 
the  Old  Bailey  ;  but  I  suspect  (I  never  tried)  con- 
versation with  his  father,  in  Boswell's  phrase,  a 
"  tremendous  companion,"  must  have  been  a  rather 
overwhelming  experience.  .  .  .  And,  after  all,  the 
wonderful  thing  is  that  the  son  stood  the  comparison 
so  well,  that  he  was  not  utterly  crushed  by  it — that 
the  successor  of  so  exorbitant  an  arlist  could  main- 
tain any  orbit  of  his  own.  That  is  a  curious  corner 
of  our  contemporary  society  the  corner  of  the  second 
generation,  where  the  son  mentions  "  my  father  " 
quickly,  with  a  slight  drop  of  the  voice,  out  of  a 
courteous  disinclination  to  let  filial  respect  become  a 
bore  to  third  parties.     There  is  an  academician  of 

170 


H.    B.    IRVIiNG 

the  second  generation  in  Pailleron's  play  who  is 
always  alluding  to  7non  illustre  jpere,  and  as  the  ill- 
natured  say  joue  du  cadavre.  In  our  little  English 
corner  there  is  never  any  such  lapse  from  good  taste, 
Harry  Irving  was  greatly  loved  there  ;  and  will  be 
sadly  missed. 


171 


THE    PUPPETS 

At  the  corner  of  a  Bloomsbury  square  I  found 
my  path  blocked  by  a  Httlc  crowd  of  children  who 
were  watching  a  puppet  show  of  an  unusual  kind. 
The  usual  kind,  of  course,  is  Punch  and  Judy,  which 
has  become  a  degenerate  thing,  with  its  puppets 
gras])cd  in  the  operator's  hand  ;  these  puppets  were 
wired,  in  the  grand  manner  of  the  art,  and  had  a 
horse  and  cart,  no  less,  for  their  transport.  The 
show,  though  lamentably  poor  in  itself — the  puppets 
merely  danced  solemnly  round  and  round  without 
any  attempt  at  dramatic  action — was  rich  in 
suggestion.  Do  we  not  all  keep  a  warm  corner  of 
our  hearts  for  the  puppets,  if  only  for  their  venerable 
antiquity  and  their  choice  literary  associations  ? 
Why,  in  the  grave  pages  of  the  Literary  SuppUment 
learned  arelucologists  have  lately  been  corresponding 
about  the  Elizabethan  "  motions,"  and  Sir  William 
Ilidgeway  has  traced  the  puppets  back  to  the 
Syracuse  of  Xenophon's  day,  and  told  us  how  that 
author  in  his  ''  Symjjosium  "  makes  a  famous 
Syracusan  puppet  player  say  that  he  esteems  fools 
above  other  men  because  they  are  those  who  go 
to  see  his  puppets  {vn'poanmTTn).  My  own  reeoUec- 
172 


TlIK     PUPPETS 

tions  connect  Xcnophon  with  purasiungs  rather  than 
puppets,  but  I  am  glad  to  be  made  aware  of  this 
honourable  pedigree,  though  I  strongly  resent  the 
Syracusan's  remark  about  the  amateurs  of  puppets. 
I  share  the  taste  of  Partridge,  who  "  loved  a  puppet 
show  of  all  the  pastimes  uj)on  earth,"'  and  I  sympa- 
thize with  the  showman  in  "  Tom  Jones  '  who  could 
tolerate  all  religions  save  that  of  the  Presbyterians, 
"  because  they  were  enemies  to  jnippet  shows."  And 
so  I  lingired  with  the  children  at  the  corner  of  the 
liloomsbury  s(}uare. 

Puppets,  someone  has  said,  have  this  advantage 
over  actors  :  they  are  made  for  what  they  do,  their 
nature  conforms  exactly  to  their  destiny.  I  have 
seen  them  in  Italy  performing  romantic  drama  with 
a  dash  and  a  panaclie  that  no  English  actor  in  my 
recollection  (save,  perhaps,  the  late  Mr.  Lewis 
Waller)  could  rival.  Actors,  being  men  as  well  as 
actors,  and  therefore  condenuied  to  effort  in  acting, 
if  only  the  effort  of  keeping  down  tiuir  consciousness 
of  their  real,  total  self,  cannot  attain  to  this  clear-cut 
definiteness  and  purity  of  performance.  Piit  the 
wire-puller  nuist  be  a  true  artist,  his  finger-tips 
responsive  to  every  emotional  tlirill  of  the  character 
and  every  nuance  of  the  drama  ;  iiuketl,  the  ideal 
wire-puller  is  the  poet  himself,  exi^ressing  himself 
through  the  motions  of  his  puppets  and  declaiming 
his  own  words  for  them. 

It  was  witli  this  thoughl  in  iii\  niiiui  thai  I 
ventured,  when  Mr.  Hardy  (irst  ])ublisli("<l  The 
178 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Dynasts,  to  suj,'gest  that  the  perfect  performance  of 

that  work  would  be  as  a  ])upi)ct  show,  with  Mr. 

Hardy  reading  out  his  own  blank  verse.     I  pointed 

out  the  suggestive  reference  to  puppets  in  the  text. 

One  of  the  Spirits  describes  the  human  protagonists 

as  "  mere  marionettes,"  and  elsewhere  you  read  : — 

Forgetting  the  Prime  Mover  of  the  gear 

As  puppet-watchers  him  who  moves  the  strings. 

Further,  at  the  very  core  of  Mr.  Hardy's  drama  is 
the  idea  that  tliese  Napoleons  and  Pitts  and  Nelsons 
are  puppets  of  the  Immanent  Will.  If  ever  there 
was  a  case  for  raising  a  puppet  show  to  the  highest 
literary  dignity,  this  was  one. 

But  it  was  all  in  vain.  Eitiier  Mr.  Hardy  was 
too  modest  to  declaim  his  own  verse  in  public,  or 
else  the  actors  pushed  in,  as  they  will  wherever  they 
can,  and  laid  hands  on  as  much  of  his  work  as  they 
could  manage.  And  so  vie  had  Mr.  Granville 
Barker's  version  early  in  the  war  and  only  the  other 
day  the  performance  at  Oxford,  and  I  have  nothing 
to  say  against  either,  save  that  they  were,  and  could 
only  be,  extracts,  episodes,  fragments,  instead  of  the 
great  epic-drama  in  its  panoramic  entirety.  A 
puppet  show  could  embrace  the  whole,  and  one  voice 
declaiming  the  poem  would  to  be  sure  not  give  the 
necessary  unity  of  impression — that  singleness  must 
be  first  of  all  in  the  work  itself — but  would 
incidentally  emphasize  it. 

The  ])tippet  presentation  would,  however,  do 
inurh  niorc  tlian  this.  It  would  clarify,  simplify, 
174 


THE    PUPPETS 

attenuate  the  mcdiiiin  through  which  the  pocru 
reaches  the  audience.  The  poet  and  his  pubhe 
would  be  in  close  contact.  It  is,  of  course,  for  many 
minds,  especially  for  those  peculiarly  susceptible  to 
poetry,  a  perpetual  grievance  against  the  actors  that 
these  living,  bustling,  solid  pcoi)lc  get  between  them 
and  I  he  })oet  and  substitute  fact,  realism,  flesh-and- 
blood  for  what  these  minds  prefer  to  embody  only 
in  their  imagination.  There  is  the  notorious  instance 
of  Charles  Lamb,  with  his  objection  to  seeing 
Shakespeare's  tragedies  acted.  He  complained  that 
the  gay  and  witty  Richard  HI.  was  inevitably 
materialized  and  vulgarized  by  the  actor.  Lamb,  as 
we  all  know,  was  capricious,  and  indeed  made  a 
virtue  of  caprice,  but  what  do  you  say  to  so  serious 
and  weighty  a  critic  as  Professor  Raleigh  ?  Talking 
abotit  tiie  Siiakespearean  boy-aetors  of  women,  he 
commits  himself  to  this  : — "  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  Shakesj)eare  has  not  sufhrcd  more  than  he 
has  gained  by  the  genius  of  later-day  actresses,  who 
bring  into  the  plays  a  realism  and  a  robust  emotion 
which  sometimes  obscure  the  sheer  })oetie  value  of 
the  author's  conception.  Tiie  boys  were  no  doubt 
very  highly  trained,  and  amenable  to  instruction  ; 
so  that  the  parts  of  Rosalind  and  Desdemona  may 
well  have  been  rendered  witli  a  clarity  and  siniplieity 
which  served  as  a  transparent  medium  for  the 
author's  wit  and  pathos.  Poetry,  like  religion,  is 
outraged  when  it  is  made  a  j)latform  for  the  exhi- 
bition of  their  own  talent  and  passions  by  those  who 

17.5 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

arc  its  ministers.  Witli  tlit-  disappearance  oi"  the 
boy-players  the  })oetie  drama  died  in  Enghind,  and 
it  has  had  no  second  hfe."' 

A  little  "  steep,"  is  it  not  ?  Logically  it  is  an 
objection  to  all  acting  of  poetic  drama.  Boy- 
players  of  girls  are  only  a  half-way  house.  The 
transparent  medium  for  the  author's  wit  and  pathos 
would  be  still  more  transparent  if  it  were  merely  the 
medium  of  the  ])rinted  page.  Now  this  much  is 
certain.  Shakespeare  conceived  his  plays,  whatever 
poetry  or  wit  or  pathos  he  put  into  them,  in  terms 
of  men  and  women  (not  boy-women).  The  ideal 
])erformanec  of  Shakespeare  would  be  by  the  men 
and  women  who  grew  in  Shakespeare's  imagination. 
But  they,  unfortunately,  do  not  exist  in  (lesh  and 
blood,  but  only  in  that  imagination,  and,  to  bring 
them  on  the  stage,  you  have  to  employ  ready-made 
men  and  women,  who  at  the  very  best  can  only  be 
rough  approximations  to  the  imaginary  figures.  In 
this  sense  it  is  not  a  paradox  but  a  simple  common- 
place to  say  that  no  one  has  ever  seen  Shakespeare's 
Hamlet  on  the  stage,  or  ever  will  sec.  And  the 
greater  the  ''  genius  "  of  the  actor,  the  more  potent 
his  personality — though  he  will  be  the  darling  of 
the  majority,  thirsting  for  realism,  the  immediate 
sense  of  life — the  more  will  he  get  between  the  poet 
and  imaginative  students  like  Lamb  and  Professor 
Rideigh,  who  want  their  poetry  inviolate. 

This  seems  like  a  digression,  but  is  really  to  my 
purpose.     Flesh-and-blood   actors    we   sliall   always 

176 


THE    PUPPETS 

iuivc  with  us  ;  they  will  take  good  care  of  that 
themselves.  But  for  the  imaginative  souls  who  arc 
for  compromise,  who  are  for  halfway  houses  and 
look  back  fondly  to  the  boy-j^laycrs,  I  would  say  : 
Why  not  try  the  puppets  ?  These  also  present  a 
"  transparent  medium  "  for  the  author's  expression. 
And,  further,  the  purely  "  lyrical  "'  passages  in  which 
Shakespeare  abounds  and  which  seem  so  odd  in  the 
realism  of  the  human  actors  {e.g.,  the  Queen's 
description  of  Ophelia's  death)  would  gain  immensely 
by  being  recited  by  the  jioet  (or  wire-puller).  A 
puppet-show  Hamlet  might  be  an  exquisite  experi- 
ment in  that  highest  art  whose  secret  is  suggestion. 


177 


VICISSITUDES    OF    CLASSICS 

Of  Webster's  Dtichess  of  Malfi,  revived  by  the 
Phoenix  Society,  I  said  that  it  was  a  hve  classic  no 
longer,  but  a  museum-classic,  a  curio  for  connois- 
seurs. Its  multiplication  of  violent  deaths  in  the 
last  act  (four  men  stabbed  and  one  courtesan 
poisoned)  could  no  longer  be  taken  seriously,  and,  in 
fact,  provoked  a  titter  in  the  audience.  This  sudden 
change  of  tragic  into  comic  effect  was  fatal  to  that 
iniity  of  impression  without  which  not  merely  a 
tragedy  but  any  work  of  art  ceases  to  be  an  organic 
whole.  The  change  was  less  the  fault  of  Webster 
than  of  the  Time  Spirit.  Apparently  the  early 
Jacobeans  could  accept  a  piled  heap  of  corpses  at  the 
end  of  a  play  without  a  smile,  as  "  all  wcrry  capital." 
Violent  death  was  not  so  exceptional  a  thing  in  their 
own  experience  as  it  is  in  ours.  They  had  more 
simplicity  of  mind  than  we  have,  a  more  childlike 
docility  in  swallowing  whole  what  the  playwright 
offered  them.  But  Webster  was  not  without  fault. 
One  assassination  treads  so  hastily  upon  the  heels  of 
the  other,  the  slaughter  is  so  wholesale.  Hamlet 
closes  with  several  violent  deaths,  yet  Shakespeare 
managed  to  avt>id  this  pell-mell  wholesale  effect. 
178 


VICISSITUDES    OF    CLASSICS 

But  there  is  another  element  in  Webster's  work- 
manship which,  I  think,  has  helped  to  deprive  the 
play  of  life.  I  mean  his  obtrusive  ingenuity.  I  am 
not  referring  to  the  ingenuity  of  the  tortures  prac- 
tised upon  the  unhappy  Duchess — the  severed  hand 
thrust  into  hers,  the  wax  figure  purporting  to  be  her 
slain  husband,  and  so  forth.  This  fiendish  ingenuity 
is  proper  to  the  character  of  the  tyrant  Ferdinand, 
and  its  exercise  does  add  a  grisly  horror  to  the  play. 
I  mean  the  ingenuity  of  Webster  himself,  a  per- 
verted, wasted  ingenuity,  in  his  play-construction. 
He  seems  to  have  ransacked  his  fancy  in  devising 
scenic  experiments.  There  is  the  "  echo  "  scene.  It 
is  theatrically  ineffective.  It  gives  you  no  tragic 
emotion,  but  only  a  sense  of  amused  interest  in  the 
author's  ingenuity,  and  you  say,  "How  quaint!" 
Then  there  is  the  little  device  for  giving  a  touch  of 
irony  to  the  Cardinal's  murder.  He  has  warned  the 
courtiers,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  that  if  they  hear 
him  cry  for  help  in  the  night  they  are  to  take  no 
notice  ;  he  will  be  only  pretending.  And  so,  when 
he  cries  for  help  in  real  earnest,  he  is  hoist  with  his 
own  petard,  and  the  courtiers  only  cry,  "  Fie  upon  his 
counterfeiting."  Again  the  theatrical  effect  is  small ; 
you  are  merely  distracted  from  tiie  tragic  business  in 
hand  by  the  author's  curious  ingenuity.  For  any  one 
interested  in  the  theatrical  cwi.vi;je  these  experiments 
of  course,  have  their  piquancy.  Webster  seems  to 
have  been  perpetually  seeking  for  "  new  thrills  " — 
like  the  Grand  (iuigmil  peopK   in  our  own  day.     He 

179  N2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

had  some  lucky  finds.  Tlic  masque  of  madmen,  lor 
instance,  is  a  tremendous  thrill,  one  of  the  biggest,  I 
daresay,  in  the  history  of  tragedy.  But  there  were 
exjuriments  that  didnt  eonie  off. 

At  any  rate  they  fail  with  us.  Webster,  no  doubt, 
liad  his  true  "  posterity  ''  (was  it  iX'rchancc  contem- 
porary with  Pepys  ?),  but  we  arc  his  post-posterity. 
In  a  sense  every  masterpiece  is  in  advance  of  its 
time,  "  The  reason,"  says  Marcel  Proust  (*'  A 
I'ombre  des  jeunes  filles  en  fleurs  ") — 

"  The  reason  why  a  work  of  genius  is  admired 
with  difliculty  at  once  is  that  the  author  is  extra- 
ordinary, that  few  people  resemble  him.  It  is  his 
work  itself  that  in  fertilizing  the  rare  minds  capable 
of  comprehending  it  makes  them  grow  and  nudtiply. 
Beethoven's  quartets  (XII.,  XIII.,  XIV.,  and  XV.) 
have  taken  fifty  }cars  lo  give  birtii  and  growth  to  the 
Beethoven  quartet  public,  thus  realizing  like  every 
masterpiece  a  progress  in  the  society  of  minds, 
largely  composed  to-day  of  what  was  not  to  be  found 
when  the  masterpiece  api)eared,  that  is  to  say,  of 
beings  capable  of  loving  it.  What  we  call  j)ostcrity 
is  the  j)ostcrity  of  the  work  itself.  The  work  must 
create  its  own  posterity.'' 

Assuredly  we  of  to-day  can  sec  more  in  Hamlet 
than  its  first  audience  could.  But  tiie  curve  of 
"  posterity  "  is  really  a  zig-zag.  Each  generation 
selects  from  a  classic  what  suits  it.  Few  of  the 
original  colours  arc  ''  fast  "  ;  some  fade,  others  grow 
more  vivid  and  then  fade  in  their  turn.  The 
ISO 


VICISSITUDES    OF    CLASSICS 

Jacobean  playgoer  was  impressed  by  Webster's 
heaped  corpses,  and  we  titter.  He  probably  revelled 
in  the  mad  scene  of  the  "  lycanthropic  "  Ferdinand, 
where  we  are  bored.  (The  taste  for  mad  scenes  was 
long  lived  ;  it  lasted  from  the  Elizabethans,  on 
through  Betterton's  time — see  Valentine  in  Love  for 
Love — and  Garrick's  time,  as  we  know  from  Bos- 
well's  anecdote  about  Irene,  down  to  the  moment 
when  Tilburina  went  mad  in  white  satin.)  On  the 
other  hand,  a  scene  which  has  possibly  gained  in 
piquancy  for  us  of  to-day,  the  j)roud  contemporaries 
of  Mr.  Shaw,  is  that  wherein  the  Duchess  woos  the 
coy  Antonio  and  weds  him  out  of  hand.  When  we 
chance  upon  a  thing  like  this  in  a  classic  we  are  apt, 
fatuously  enough,  t(j  exclaim,  "  IIow  modern  !  " 

No  one  is  likely  to  make  that  exclamation  over 
another  classic  of  momentary  revival,  Le  Malade 
Imaginaxre.  There  is  not  a  vestige  of  "  modernity  " 
in  Molieres  play.  It  is  absolutely  j^rimitive.  Or 
rather  it  seems,  in  all  essentials,  to  stand  outside  time, 
to  exhibit  nothing  of  any  consequence  that  "  dates." 
It  has  suffered  no  such  mishap  as  has  befallen 
Webster's  tragedy — a  change  of  mental  attitude  in 
the  audience  which  has  turned  the  author's  desired 
effect  upside  down.  At  no  point  at  which  Molidre 
made  a  bid  for  our  laughter  arc  we  provoked,  con- 
trariwise, to  frown.  You  cannot,  by  the  way,  say 
this  about  all  Moliere.  Much,  e.g.,  of  th<^  fim  in 
George  Datulin  strikes  a  modern  audience  as  uk  rely 
cruel.      Bntli  in  Alccsic  and  Tarhiffc  there  lias  been 

181 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

a  certain  alteration  of  "  values  "  in  the  progress  of 
the  centuries.  But  Le  Malade  Imaginaire  is  un- 
touched. We  can  enjoy  it,  I  imagine,  with  precisely 
the  same  delight  as  its  first  audience  felt.  Some 
items  of  it,  to  be  sure,  were  actual  facts  for  them 
which  are  only  history  for  us ;  the  subservience  of 
children  to  parents,  for  instance,  and  (though  Mr. 
Shaw  will  not  agree)  the  pedantic  humbug  of  the 
faculty.  But  the  point  is,  that  the  things  laughed 
at,  though  they  may  have  ceased  to  exist  in  fact, 
are  as  ridiculous  as  ever.  And  note  that  our 
laughter  is  not  a  whit  affected  by  childisli  absurdities 
in  the  |)lot.  Argan's  little  girl  shams  dead  and  he 
immediately  assumes  she  is  dead.  Argan  shams 
dead  and  neither  his  wife  nor  his  elder  daughter  for 
a  moment  questions  the  reality  of  his  death.  His 
own  serving-wench  puts  on  a  doctor's  gown  and  he 
is  at  once  deceived  by  the  disguise.  These  little 
things  do  not  matter  in  the  least.  We  are  willing 
to  go  all  lengths  in  make-believe  so  long  as  we  get  our 
laughter. 

Here,  then,  is  a  classic  which  seems  to  be  outside 
the  general  rule.  It  has  not  had  to  make,  in  M. 
Proust's  phrase,  its  own  posterity.  It  has  cscaj)ed 
those  vicissitudes  of  aj)})reciation  which  classics  are 
apt  to  suffer  from  changes  in  the  general  condition  of 
the  public  mind.  .  .  .  But  stay  !  If  it  has  always 
been  greeted  with  the  same  abundance  of  laughter, 
has  the  quality  of  that  laughter  been  invariable  ? 
Clearly  not,  for  Molidrc  is  at  pains  to  apologize  in  his 

182 


VICISSITUDES    OF    CLASSICS 

play  for  seeming  to  laugh  at  the  faculty,  whereas,  he 
says,  he  has  only  in  view  "  le  ridicule  dv  la  nicdeeine." 
Between  half-resentful,  half-fearful  laughter  at  a 
Purgon  or  Diafoirus  who  may  be  at  your  bedside  next 
week  and  ligiit-hcartcd  laughter  at  figures  that  have 
become  merely  fantastic  pantaloons  there  is  consider- 
able difference.  And  so  we  re-establish  our  general 
rule. 


188 


PERVERTED    REPUTATIONS 

Sir  Henry  Irving  used  to  tell  how  he  and  Toole 
had  gone  together  to  Stratford,  and  fallen  into  talk 
with  one  of  its  inhabitants  about  his  great  towns- 
man. After  many  cross-questions  and  crooked 
answers,  they  arrived  at  the  fact  that  the  man  knew 
that  Shakespeare  had  "  ^\Titten  for  sunmiat."  "  For 
what  ?  "  they  enquired.  "  Well,"  replied  the  man, 
"  I  do  think  he  wrote  for  the  Bible." 

This  story  illustrates  a  general  law  which  one 
might,  perhaps,  if  one  were  inclined  to  pseudo- 
scientific  categories,  call  the  law  of  perverted  reputa- 
tions. I  am  thinking  more  particidarly  of  literary 
reputations,  which  are  those  I  happen  chiefly  to 
care  about.  And  literary  reputations  j)robably  get 
perverted  more  fre(juently  than  others,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  literature  always  has  been  and  (despite 
the  cheap  manuals.  Board  schools,  and  the  modern 
improvements)  still  is  an  unfathomable  mystery  to 
the  outer  busy  world.  But,  to  get  perverted,  the 
rejjutations  must  be  big  enough  to  have  reached  the 
cars  of  that  outer  world.  What  happens,  thereafter, 
seems  to  be  something  like  this.  The  man  in  the 
back  street  understands  vaguely  that  so-and-so  is 

184 


P  E  R  ^'  E  R  T  E  D    REPUTATIONS 

esteemed  a  great  man.  Temperamentally  and  eul- 
turally  incapable  of  appreciating  the  works  of 
literary  art,  for  which  so-and-so  is  esteemed  great, 
the  back-streeter  is  driven  to  account  for  his  great- 
ness to  himself  on  grounds  suitable  to  his  owti  com- 
prehension, which  grounds  in  the  nature  of  the  case 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  fine  art  of  literature. 
The  general  tendency  is  to  place  these  grounds  in 
the  region  of  the  marvellous.  For  the  capacity  for 
wonder  is  as  universal  as  the  capacity  for  literature 
is  strictly  limited. 

Thus  you  have  the  notorious  instance  of  Virgil 
figuring  to  the  majority  of  men  in  the  middle  ages 
not  as  a  poet  but  as  a  magician.  Appreciation  of 
his  poetry  was  for  the  "  happy  few  "  ;  by  the  rest 
his  reputation  was  too  great  to  be  ignored,  so  they 
gave  it  a  twist  to  accommodate  it  to  the  nature  of 
their  own  imaginations.  In  more  recent  times, 
indeed  in  our  own  day,  there  is  the  ecpially  notorious 
instance  of  Shakespeare.  The  Stratford  rustic  knew 
nothing  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  but  did  know  (1)  that 
there  was  a  great  man  called  Shakespeare,  and  (2) 
that  there  was  a  great  book  called  the  Bible.  He 
concluded  that  Shakespeare  must  have  written  for  the 
IJible.  Hut  I  am  thinking  of  a  ^■ery  diffircnt  jx-rver- 
sion  of  Shakespeare's  reputation.  I  am  thinking  of 
the  strange  people,  e\j)onents  of  the  back-street  mind, 
who,  being  incapable  of  appreciating  Shakespeare's 
poetry  and  dramatic  genius  — having  in  fact  no  taste 
for  literature  as  such — have  assigned  his  greatness 

185 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

to  somethinfT  compatible  with  their  own  j)rosaic 
pedestrian  taste  and  turned  him  into  a  contriver  of 
cryptograms.  Again  you  see  the  old  appetite  for 
wonder  reappearing.  The  imputed  reputation,  as 
in  Virgil's  case,  is  for  something  abscons,  as  Rabelais 
would  have  said,  something  occult. 

It  is  the  old  story.  Superstition  comes  easier 
to  the  human  mind  than  artistic  appreciation.  But 
superstition  has  played  an  odd  freak  in  the  case 
of  Shakespeare,  It  is  actually  found  side  by  side 
>vith  artistic  appreciation,  of  which  it  presents  itself 
as  the  superlative,  or  ecstatic,  degree.  There  is,  for 
instance,  an  Oxford  professor  to  whom  the  world  is 
indebted  for  the  most  delicate,  the  most  sympa- 
thetic, as  well  as  the  most  scholarly  appreciation  of 
Shakespeare  in  existence.  Yet  this  professor  is  so 
affronted  by  the  flesh-and-blood  domination  of  the 
actresses  who  play  Shakespeare's  heroines,  the  dan- 
gerous competition  of  their  personal  charm  with  the 
glamour  of  the  text,  that  he  has  committed  himself 
to  the  startling  proposition  that  poetic  drama 
perished  with  Shakespeare's  boy  actors  !  Jealousy 
for  Shakespeare's  individual  supremacy  in  artistic 
creation,  which  must  "  brook  no  rival  near  the 
throne,"  has  turned  the  professor  into  a  misogynist. 
This  I  venture  to  call  Shakespearian  superstition. 
And  there  is  another  Oxford  i)rofcssor  (oh,  home  of 
lost  causes  and  forsaken  beliefs  !)  who  assures  us 
that  we  can  unravel  all  Shakespearian  problems  by 
a  careful  study  of  the  text   alone.     Don't  trouble 

180 


PERVERTED    REPUTATIONS 

your  minds  about  the  actual  facts  in  view  of  which 
the  text  had  been  written  and  in  wliich  it  was  to  be 
spoken.  Dont  ask  where  Shakespeare's  theatres 
were  and  what  the  audiences  were  Hkc  and  what 
kind  of  shows  they  were  used  to  and  continued  to 
expect.  Don't  bother  about  the  sha))e  of  the  stage 
or  its  position  in  regard  to  the  pubhe.  Stick  to  the 
text,  and  nothing  but  the  text,  and  all  shall  be  made 
plain  luito  you.  It  is  this  same  professor  who  occa- 
sionally treats  Shakespeare's  imaginary  characters 
as  though  they  were  real  persons,  with  independent 
biographies  of  their  own.  He  obliges  us  with  con- 
jectural fragments  of  their  biographies.  "  Doubt- 
less in  happier  days  he  (Hamlet)  was  a  close  and 
constant  observer  of  men  and  manners."  "  All  his 
life  he  had  believed  in  her  (Gertrude),  we  may  be 
sure,  as  such  a  son  would."  Shakespearian  supersti- 
tion again,  you  see,  not  merely  alongside  but  aetiuilly 
growing  out  of  artistic  a})preeiation. 

Literary  critics,  as  a  rule,  have  suffered  less  than 
so-called  literary  "  creators  "'  from  i)crverted  repu- 
tations. The  reason  is  plain.  The  man  in  the  back 
street  has  never  heard  of  criticism.  But  what,  it  will 
be  asked,  about  the  strange  case  of  Aristotle  ?  Well, 
I  submit  that  in  his  case  the  perversion  arose  from 
the  second  cause  I  have  indicated — not  from  the 
ignorance  of  the  multitude  but  from  the  supersti- 
tious veneration  of  the  few.  Who  was  it  who  began 
the  game  by  calling  Aristotle  "  the  master  of  those 
who  know  "  ?     A  poet  who  was  also  a  scholar.    Who 

187 


PASTICHE    AND     PREJUDICE 

(Jeclarccl  Aristotle's  authority  in  philosophy  to  equal 
St.  Paul's  in  theology  ?  Roger  Bacon  (they  say  ;  I 
have  not  myself  asked  for  this  author  at  Mudie's  or 
The  Times  Book  Club).  Who  said  there  could  be  no 
j)Ossiblc  contradiction  between  the  Poetics  and  Holy 
Writ  ?  Dacier,  an  eminent  Hellenist.  Who  declared 
the  rules  of  Aristotle  to  have  the  same  certainty  for 
him  as  the  axioms  of  Euclid  ?  Lessing,  an  esteemed 
"  highbrow."  The  gradual  process,  then,  by  which 
the  real  Aristotle,  pure  thinker,  critic  investigating 
and  co-ordinating  the  facts  of  the  actual  drama  of 
his  time,  was  perverted  into  the  spurious  Aristotle, 
Mumbo  Jumbo  of  criticism,  mysteriarch,  deposi- 
tary of  the  Tables  of  the  Law,  was  the  same  process 
that  we  have  seen  at  work  in  the  case  of  Shakespeare 
— enthusiastic  appreciation  toppling  over  into 
superstition. 

But  none  of  us  can  afford  to  put  on  airs  about  it. 
Mittato  nomine  de  te.  For,  after  all,  what  are  these 
various  cases  but  extreme  instances  of  the  "  per- 
sonal e(iuation  "  that  enters  into  every,  even  the 
sanest  opinion  ?  Can  any  one  of  us  do  anything  else 
towards  appreciating  a  work  of  art  than  remake  it 
within  himself?  So,  if  we  are  to  avoid  these 
absurd  extremes,  let  us  look  to  ourselves,  do  our 
best  to  get  ourselves  into  harmony  \vith  the  artist, 
and  •'  clear  our  minds  of  cant." 


Ib8 


THE    SECRET    OF    GREEK    ART 

Mathematics  may  be  great  fun.  Even  simple 
arithmetic  is  not  without  its  comic  side,  as  when  it 
enables  you  to  find,  with  a  little  management,  the 
Number  of  the  Beast  in  the  name  of  any  one  you 
dislike.  Then  there  is  "  the  low  cunning  of  algebra."' 
It  became  low  cunning  indeed  when  Eulcr  drove 
(so  tlie  anecdotist  relates)  Diderot  out  of  Russia  with 
a     sham    algebraical    fornuda.     "  Monsieur,''    said 

liiuler    gravclv,       =  x,    done    Uieu     existe ; 

repondezy    Diderot,  no  algebraist,  could  not  answer, 
and  left. 

But  geometry  furnishes  the  best  sport.  Here  is  a 
learned  American  archicologist,  Mr.  .Jay  Hambidge, 
lecturing  to  that  august  body  the  Hellenic  Society 
and  revealing  to  them  his  discovery  that  the  secret 
of  classic  Greek  art  (of  the  best  period)  is  a  matter 
of  two  magic  rectangles.  I  understand  tliat  the 
learned  gentleman  himself  did  not  make  this  extreme 
claim  about  the  "  secret  "  of  "  Art,"  but  it  was  at  any 
rate  so  described  in  the  report  on  which  my  remarks 
arc  based.  Mr.  Hambidge  appears  to  have  devoted 
years  of  labour  and  ingenuity  to  his  researches. 
The  result  is  in  any  case  of  curious  interest.     But 

189 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

liow  that  result  can  be  said  to  be  *'  the  secret  of 
Greek  art  revealed  "  I  \vholly  fail  to  sec. 

Let  us  look  lirst  at  his  reetan<3des.  His  first  is 
2  X  \  5.  It  is  said  that  these  figures  represent  the 
ratio  of  a  man's  hcifrht  to  the  full  si)an  of  his  out- 
stretched fingers.  But  what  man  ?  Of  what  race 
and  age  ?  Well,  let  us  say  an  average  Greek  of  the 
best  period,  and  pass  on.  Mr.  Hambidge  has  found 
this  rectangle  over  and  over  again  in  the  design  of 
the  Parthenon.  "  Closely  akin  "'  to  it,  says  the 
report,  is  another  fundamental  rectangle,  of  which 
the  two  dimensions  arc  in  tlic  ratio  of  Leonardo's 
famous  "  golden  section."  That  ratio  is  obtained 
by  dividing  a  straight  line  so  that  its  greater  is  to 
its  lesser  part  as  the  whole  is  to  the  greater.  Let  us 
give  a  mathematical  meaning  to  the  "  closely  akin.' 
Calling  the  lesser  part  1  and  the  greater  a\  then — 

X       X  +  1 

f  =  — - —  or  ci'2  —  .T  —  1  =  0 

1  X 

which  gives  you 

V  5  +  1 
x  = 2 

Tiie  square  roots   will  not  trouble  you   when  you 

come    to    constructing    your    rectangles,    for    the 

diagonal  of  tiie  lirst  is    ^(5  +  4),  or  3.      If  AH  is 

your  side  2,  draw  a  perpendicular  to  it  through  B, 

and  with  A  as  centre  describe  the  arc  of  a  circle  of 

radius  3  ;  the  point  of  intersection  will  give  C,  the 

other  end  of  the  diagonal.     The  second  rectangle 

maintains  AB,  and  simply  prolongs  BC  by  half  of 

190 


THE    SECRET    OF    GREEK    ART 

AB  or  1.  Just  as  the  dimensions  of  the  first  rect- 
angle are  related  to  those  of  (selected)  man,  and  to 
the  plan  of  the  Parthenon,  so  those  of  the  second  are 
related,  it  seems,  to  the  arrangement  of  seeds  in  the 
sunflower  and  to  the  plan  of  some  of  the  Pyramids. 
Sir  Theodore  Cook  writes  to  The  Times  to  say  that 
both  the  sunflower  and  the  Pyramid  discoveries  are 
by  no  means  new. 

The  fact  is  the  theory  of  "  beautiful  "  rectangles 
is  not  new.  The  classic  exponent  of  it  is  Fechner, 
who  essayed  to  base  it  on  actual  experiment.  He 
placed  a  number  of  rectangular  cards  of  various 
dimensions  before  his  friends,  and  asked  them  to 
select  the  one  they  thought  most  beautiful.  Appa- 
rently the  "golden  section"  rectangle  got  most 
votes.  But  "  most  of  the  persons  began  by  saying 
that  it  all  depended  on  the  application  to  be  made 
of  the  figure,  and  on  being  told  to  disregard  this, 
showed  much  hesitation  in  choosing."  (Bosanquet : 
"History  of  Esthetic,"  p.  382.)  If  they  had  been 
Greeks  of  the  best  period,  they  would  have  all  gone 
with  one  accord  for  the  "  golden  section  ''  rectangle. 
Nor  have  the  geometers  of  beauty  restricted  their 
favours  to  the  rectangle.  Some  have  favoured  the 
eirele,  some  the  square,  others  the  ellipse.  And 
what  about  Hogarth's  "  line  of  beauty  "  ?  1  last 
saw  it  affectionately  alluded  to  in  the  advertisement 
of  a  corset  manufacturer.  So,  evidently,  Hogarth's 
idea  has  not  been  wasted. 

One  sympathizes  with  Fechner's  fri«  luls  who  said 

MM 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

it  all  depended  upon  the  application  to  he  made  of 
the  figure.  The  "  art  "  in  a  picture  is  generally  to 
be  looked  for  inside  the  frame.     The  Parthenon  may 

\/5 
have  been  planned  on  the  — —  rectangle,  but  you 

cannot  evolve  the  Parthenon  itself  out  of  that  vulgar 
fraction.  Feehner  proceeded  on  the  assumption 
that  art  is  a  physical  fact  and  that  its  "  secret  " 
could  be  wriuig  out  of  it,  as  in  any  other  physical 
inquiry,  by  observation  and  experiment,  by  induc- 
tion from  a  sufficient  number  of  facts.  But  when 
he  came  to  have  a  theory  of  it  he  found,  like  anybody 
else,  that  introspection  was  the  only  way. 

And  whatever  rectangles  Mr.  Hambidgc  may 
discover  in  Greek  works  of  art,  he  will  not  thereby 
have  revealed  the  secret  of  Greek  art.  For  rectangles 
are  physical  facts  (when  they  arc  not  mere  abstrac- 
tions), and  art  is  not  a  physical  fact,  but  a  spiritual 
activity.  It  is  in  the  mind  of  the  artist,  it  is  his 
vision,  the  expression  of  his  intuition,  and  beauty 
is  only  another  name  for  perfect  expression.  That, 
at  any  rate,  is  the  famous  "  intuition-expression  " 
theory  of  Benedetto  Croce,  which  at  present  holds 
the  field.  It  is  a  theory  which,  of  course,  presents 
many  difficulties  to  the  popular  mind — what  aesthetic 
theory  does  not  ? — but  it  covers  the  ground,  as  none 
other  does,  and  comprehends  all  arts,  painting, 
poetry,  music,  sculpture,  and  the  rest,  in  one.  Its 
main  difficulty  is  its  distinction  between  the  jcsthetic 
fact,  the  artists  expression,  and  the  physical  fact,  the 
192 


THE    SECRET    OF    GREEK    ART 

externalization  of  the  artist's  expression,  the  so- 
called  "  work  "  of  art.  Dr.  BosaiKiuct  has  objected 
that  this  seems  to  leave  out  of  account  the  influence 
on  the  artist's  expression  of  his  material,  his  medium, 
but  Crocc,  I  think,  has  not  overlooked  that  objection 
C'Estetica,"  Ch.  XIII.,  end),  though  many  of  us  would 
be  glad  if  he  could  devote  some  future  paper  in  the 
Critica  to  meeting  it  fairly  and  squarely.  Anyhow, 
aesthetics  is  not  a  branch  of  physics,  and  the  "  secret  " 
of  art  is  not  to  be  "  revealed  "  by  a  whole  Euclidful 
of  rectangles. 

But  it  is,  of  course,  an  interesting  fact  that 
certain  Greeks,  and  before  them  certain  Egyptians, 
took  certain  rectangles  as  the  basis  of  their  designs 
— rectangles  which  are  also  related  to  the  average 
proportions  of  the  human  body  and  to  certain 
botanical  types.  If  Mr.  Hambidge — or  his  prede- 
cessors, of  whom  Sir  Theodore  Cook  speaks — have 
established  this  tiicy  have  certainly  put  their  fingers 
on  an  engaging  convention.  \Yho  would  have 
thought  that  the  "  golden  section  "  that  very  ugly- 

a/5  -4-1 
looking  — — — —  could  iiavc  had  so  much  in  it  ?     Tiie 

builder  of  the  Great  Pyramid  of  Ciliizcli  knew  all 
about  it  in  4700  B.C.  and  the  Greeks  of  the  age  of 
Pericles,  and  then  Leonardo  da  Vinci  toyed  with  it 
— "  que  de  choses  dans  un  inenuet !  "  It  is  really 
rather  cavalier  of  Croce  to  dismiss  this  golden  section 
along  with  Michael  Angelo's  serpentine  lines  of 
beauty  as  the  astrology  of  ^^sthetic. 
p.p.  103  o 


A    POINT    OF    CROCE'S 

Advkkting  to  Mr.  Jay  Hanibidgc's  rectangles  of 
beauty  I  had  occasion  to  cite  Croce  and  his  distinc- 
tion between  the  aesthetic  fact  of  expression  and  the 
practical  fact  of  externalization,  to  which  distinction, 
1  said,  Dr.  liosanqnet  had  objected  that  it  ignored 
the  influence  upon  the  artist  of  his  medium.  Dr. 
Bosanquet  has  courteously  sent  mc  a  copy  of  a 
communication,  "  Crocc's  iEsthetic,"  which  he  has 
made  to  the  British  Academy,  and  which  deals  not 
only  with  this  point,  but  with  his  general  objecUons 
to  the  Croccan  philosoj)hy  of  art.  It  is  not  all  objec- 
tion, far  from  it ;  much  of  it  is  highly  laudatory,  and 
all  of  it  is  manifestly  WTittcn  in  a  sj^irit  of  candour 
and  simple  desire  to  arrive  at  the  truth.  But  1  have 
neither  the  space  nor  the  competence  to  review  the 
whole  pamphlet,  and  I  will  confine  myself  to  the 
particular  point  with  which  I  began.  ^Vhilc  suggest- 
ing, however,  some  criticisms  of  Dr.  Bosanquct's 
contentions,  I  admit  the  susj)icion  that  I  may 
resemble  one  of  those  disputants  who,  as  Renan  once 
said,  at  the  bottom  of  their  minds  are  a  little  of  the 
opinion  of  the  other  side.  That,  indeed,  was  why  I 
said  that  many  of  us  would  be  glad  to  hear  further  on 
194 


A    POINT    OF    CROCE'S 

the  point  from  Croce  himself.  But  witli  Dr.  Bosaii- 
quet's  pamphlet  before  me  I  cannot  afford  to  "  wait 
and  see."  I  must  say,  with  all  diffidence,  what  I 
can. 

Dr.  Bosanqiict  describes  the  Crocean  view  quite 
fairly.  "  The  '  work  of  art,'  then,  picture,  statue, 
musical  pcrformauee,  printed  or  sjwken  poem,  is 
called  so  only  by  a  metaphor.  It  belongs  to  the 
practical  (economic)  and  not  to  the  festhetic  phase 
of  the  spirit,  and  consists  merely  of  expedients 
adopted  by  the  artist  as  a  practical  man,  to  ensure 
preservation  and  a  permanent  ]iossibility  of  repro- 
duction for  his  imaginative  intuition.  The  art  and 
beauty  lie  primarily  in  his  imagination,  and  secon- 
darily in  the  imagination  of  those  to  whom  his  own 
may  commimieate  its  experience.  The  picture  and 
the  music  are  by  themselves  neither  art  nor  beauty 
nor  intuition-expression." 

But  when  Dr.  Bosanquet  goes  on  to  make  his 
inferences,  I  suggest  that  he  infers  too  much. 
"  Thus,"  he  says,  "  all  embodiment  in  special  kinds 
of  physical  objects  by  help  of  special  media  and 
special  processes  is  wholly  foreign  to  the  nature  of 
art  and  beauty  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  to  l)e  learned 
from  the  practical  means  by  help  of  which  intuitions 
of  beauty  receive  permanence  and  conuniniieability." 
"  Wholly  foreign  "  and  "  nothing  to  he  learned  " 
arc,  I  think,  too  strong.  Thougli  I  lu-  practical  means 
arc  distinct  from  art,  they  are  |)art  of  the  artist's 
experience.  The  artist  is  not  working //j  i'rt«/o.  He 
195  02 


PASTICHE    AND    P  11  E  J  T  1)  I  C  E 

is  a  certain  man,  with  a  certain  nature  and  experi- 
ence, at  a  certain  moment  of  time.  His  joy,  say,  in 
handling  and  modcUinfr  chiy  (I  take  this  example 
from  an  old  lecture  of  Dr.  Bosanquet's)  will  be  one 
of  the  factors  in  his  experience.  In  that  sense  it  will 
not  be  "  wholly  foreign  "  to  his  art,  and  he  will  have 
"  learned  "  something  from  it.  It  is  not  itself  the 
art-impulse,  the  expressive  activity,  but  it  is,  what 
Croce  calls  it,  a  point  (Vappui  for  a  new  one. 

For  let  us  hear  what  Croce  himself  says  on  this 
point  ("  Estetica,"  Ch.  XIH.).  "  To  the  explana- 
tion of  physical  beauty  as  a  mere  aid  for  the  repro- 
duction of  internal  beauty,  or  expression,  it  might  be 
objected,  that  the  artist  creates  his  expressions  in  the 
act  of  painting  or  carving,  writing  or  composing  ; 
and  that  therefore  physical  beauty,  instead  of 
following,  sometimes  precedes  aesthetic  beauty.  This 
would  be  a  very  superficial  way  of  understanding  the 
procedure  of  the  artist,  who,  in  reality,  makes  no 
stroke  of  the  brush  without  having  first  seen  it  in  his 
imagination  ;  and,  if  he  has  not  yet  seen  it,  will  make 
it,  not  to  externalize  his  expression  (wiiieh  at  that 
moment  does  not  exist),  but  as  it  were  on  trial  and  to 
have  a  mere  jjoini  cVappui  for  further  meditation  and 
internal  concentration.  The  physical  j^oint  d'appui 
is  not  physical  beauty,  instrument  of  reproduction, 
but  a  means  that  might  be  called  j^^^dagugic,  like 
retiring  to  solitude  or  the  many  other  expedients, 
often  (jueer  enough,  adopted  l)y  artists  and  men  of 
science  and  varying  according  to  their  various 
196 


A    POINT    OF    CROCK'S 

idiosyncrasies."'  Can  wt-  not  put  it  more  generally 
and  say  that  the  artist's  historic  situation  is  changing 
at  every  moment  and  his  experience  with  his  medium 
is  part  of  that  situation  (just  as  is  the  date  of  his 
birth,  his  country,  or  the  state  of  his  digestion),  or  in 
other  words,  one  of  the  influences  that  make  him 
what  he  is  and  not  some  one  else  ?  But  to  admit 
that,  it  seems  to  me,  is  not  at  all  to  deny  the  inde- 
pendence of  his  spiritual  activity  in  expression  any 
more  than  the  freedom  of  the  Avill  is  denied  by  the 
admission  that  will  must  always  be  exercised  in  a 
definite  historical  situation. 

What  Dr.  Bosanquet  cannot  abide  is  Croec's  great 
principle  that  in  aesthetic  philosophy  there  are  no  arts 
but  only  art.  He  says  this  "  offers  to  destroy  our 
medium  of  intercourse  through  the  body  and  through 
natural  objects."  Why  "  destroy  "  ?  Surely  it  is 
not  a  case  of  destruction  but  of  removal ;  removal 
from  the  philosophy  of  art  to  that  of  practice.  Croce 
is  not  (piite  so  foolish  as  to  offer  to  destroy  things 
indestructible ;  he  is  only  trying  to  put  them  in 
their  place. 

"  The  truth  is,  surely,  that  different  inclinations 
of  the  spirit  have  affinities  with  different  qualities 
and  actions  of  body— meaning  by  body  that  which  a 
sane  philosoi)hy  accepts  as  concretely  and  completely 
actual  in  the  world  of  sense-perception.  The 
imagination  of  the  particular  artist  is 

like  the  dyi-r'a  hand, 
Subdufd  to  what  it  works  in. 

197 


PASTTCTTE    AND    PREJUDICE 

and  its  intuit  ion  and  expression  assume  a  speeial 
type  in  accordance  with  the  medium  it  dehyhts 
in,  and  necessarily  develop  certain  capacities  and 
aeknowledfje,  however  tacitly,  certain  limitations." 
Who  denies  anything  so  obvious  ?  Certainly  not 
Croce.  What  he  denies,  I  take  it,  is  that  these 
considerations,  however  valuable  in  their  right 
place,  are  proper  to  a  philosophy  of  art.  They  are 
classifications  and  generalizations,  he  would  say,  and 
philosophy  deals  not  with  goicrnlia  but  with  univer- 
sals.  To  say  that  art  is  one  is  not  to  say  tiuit  Raphael 
and  Mozart  arc  one.  There  are  no  duplicates  in 
human  life  and  no  two  artists  have  tiie  same  activity 
of  intuition-expression.  You  may  classify  tluin  in 
all  sorts  of  ways  ;  those  who  express  themselves  in 
paint,  those  who  express  themselves  in  sounds,  and 
so  forth ;  or  sub-classify  them  into  landseapists, 
portraitists,  etc.,  etc.  ;  or  sub-sub-classify  them  into 
"  school  "  of  Constable,  "  school  "  of  Reynolds, 
etc.,  etc.  But  you  arc  only  getting  further  and 
further  away  from  anything  like  a  philosophy  of  art, 
and  will  have  achieved  at  best  a  maiuial  or  history  of 
technique.  In  a  philosophic  theory  Dr.  Rosanquet's 
"  aflinities  of  the  spirit "  are  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 
Thereupon  he  says,  crushingly,  "  if  you  insist  on 
neglecting  these  affinities  of  the  spirit,  your  theory 
remains  abstract,  and  has  no  illuminating  ))ower." 
Well,  Croee's  theory  is  certainly  "  up  there,"  it 
inhabits  the  cold  air  of  pure  ideas  ;  it  will  not  be  of 
the  least  practical  use  at  the  Academy  Schools  or  the 
198 


A    POINT    OF    CROCE'S 

Royal  College  of  Music  ;  but  wlien  a  philosopher  like 
Dr.  Bosanquet  finds  no  illumination  in  a  theory  which 
unifies  the  arts,  gives  a  comprehensible  definition  of 
beauty  and,  incidentally,  constructs,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  a  plausible  "  cycle  of  reality,"  I  can  but 
respectfully  wonder. 


1 IH) 


W-ILLIAM    HAZLITT 

I  WAS,  perhaps  rather  naively,  surprised  the  other 
day  to  hear  an  actor  asking  for  Ilazlitt's  "  View  of 
the  English  Stage."  Actors  in  general,  whether 
correctly  or  incorrectly  I  cannot  say,  are  reputed 
to  be  not  enthusiastically  given  to  reading.  On  the 
face  of  it,  the  thing  seems  likely  enough.  Their  busi- 
ness is  to  be  men  of  action  and  talk  and  the  busy 
world — not  sedentary  contemplative,  cloistered  stu- 
dents. Your  bookworm  is  as  a  rule  a  shy,  retiring 
solitary  ;  the  very  opposite  of  your  actor  who  must 
not  only  boldly  show  himself  but  take  a  pride  in 
being  stared  at.  Logically,  then,  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  as  shocked  as  I  was  when  the  late  Henry 
Neville  some  years  ago  roundly  declared  to  me  that 
an  actor  "  should  never  read."  Yet  the  thought  of 
a  life  without  literature  seemed  so  ajjpalling  !  It  is 
possible,  however,  to  be  a  reader,  and  a  voracious 
reader,  yet  not  to  read  Hazlitt's  stage  criticisms. 
The  epoch  is  gone.  Kcan  is  long  since  dead.  Our 
theatrical  interests  to-day  are  widely  different  from 
those  of  our  ancestors  a  century  ago.  And  Ilazlitt's 
criticisms  have  not  the  loose,  discursive,  impres- 
sionistic, personal,  intimate  charm  of  his  other 
200 


WILLIAM    IIAZLITT 

essays,  his  "  Table  Talk,"  his  "  Round  Table,"  or 
his  "  Plain  Speaker."  The}'  simply  show  him  in  the 
"  dry  light  "  of  the  specialist,  the  closet-student 
turned  playgoer,  but  these  give  a  warm,  coloured, 
speaking  hkeness  of  the  whole  man.  I  was  surprised, 
then,  to  hear  my  friend  the  actor  asking  for  Ha/litt's 
stage  criticisms.  I  venture  to  inquire  what,  i)arti- 
cularly,  he  wanted  them  for.  "  Oh,  '  he  said,  "  I  like 
to  read  about  Kean." 

And  certainly  iC  you  want  to  read  about  Kean, 
Ilazlitt  is  your  man.  It  has  been  said,  over  and 
over  again,  that  it  was  good  luck  for  both  actor  and 
critic  that  Hazlitt  had  just  begun  his  theatrical  work 
on  the  Morning  Chroniclt  when  Kean  made  his  first 
appearance  as  Shyloek  at  Drury  Lane.  Hazlitt 
helped  to  make  Kcan's  reputation  and  Kean's 
acting  was  an  invaluable  stimulant  to  Ila/litt's 
critical  faculties.  It  is  said,  by  the  way,  that  Kean 
was  originally  recommended  to  Hazlitts  notice  by 
his  editor.  Perry.  Things  of  this  sort  may  have 
happened  in  that  weird  time  of  a  century  ago,  but 
the  age  of  miracles  is  passed.  Editors  of  daily  news- 
papers in  our  time  are  not  on  the  look-out  for  un- 
revealcd  histrionic  genius.  They  have  other  fish  to 
fry.  But  Perry  seems  to  have  been  a  most  inter- 
fering editor.  He  plagued  his  critic  with  his  own 
critical  opinions.  IlazIiLts  first  "  notice  "  in  the 
Chronicle  was  about  Miss  Stephens  as  Polly  in  The 
Beggar  s  Opera.  "  When  I  got  back,  after  the  play  " 
(note  th;it  he  had  meditated   in  .■uhanee  his  "  next 

201 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

day's  criticism,  trviii*,'  to  do  all  the  justice  I  could 
to  so  intcrestiuff  ;i  subject.     I  was  not  a  little  proud 
of  it    by   anticipation  *" — happy   Hazlitt  !)    "  Perry 
called  out,  with  his  cordial,  grating  voice,   '  Well, 
how  did   she  do  ?  '   and   on   my  speaking   in   high 
terms,  answered  that  '  he  had  been  to  dine  with  his 
friend  the  Duke,  that  some  conversation  had  passed 
on  the  subject,  he  was  afraid  it  was  not  the  thing, 
it  was  not  the  true  sostetmio  style  ;    but  as  I  had 
written  the  article  '  (holding  my  peroration  on  The 
Beggar  .s  Opera  carelessly  in  his  hand),   '  it  might 
pass/   ...  I  had  the  satisfaction  the  next  day  to 
meet   Miss   Stephens   coming   out   of  the   Editor's 
room,    who   had   been   to   thank   him   for   his   very 
flattering  account  of  her.'     That  "  carelessly   "  is  a 
delicious   touch,    which   will   come   home   to   every 
scribbler.     But  Perry  and  his  friend  the  Duke  and 
that   glimpse   of  a   petticoat   whisking   out   of  the 
editors  room  !      What  a  queer,  delightful,  vanished 
newspaper-world  !       There  were,  however,  even  in 
those  days,  editors  who  did  not  interfere.     Hazlitt 
was,  for  a  brief  period,  dramatic  critic  of  The  Times 
(his   most   notable   contribution    was   his   notice  of 
Kemble's  retirement  in  Coriolanus,  June  25th,  1817), 
and  was  evidently  well  treated,  for  in  his  preface  to 
the  ''  View   "   (1818)  he  advises  "  any  one  who  has 
an  ambition  to  write,  and  to  write  his  best  in  the 
periodical  Press,  to  get,  if  he  can,  a  position  in  The 
Times  newspaper,  the  editor  of  wiiieh  is  a  man  of 
business  and  not  a  man  of  letters.     He  may  write 

202 


WILLIAM    IIAZLITT 

there  as  long  and  as  good  articles  as  he  can,  without 
being  turned  out  for  it."  One  can  only  account  for 
Hazlitfs  singular  ideal  of  an  editor  as  Johnson 
accounted  for  an  obscure  passage  in  Pope,  "  Depend 
upon  it,  Sir,  he  wished  to  vex  somebody."  Ilazlitt 
only  wanted  to  be  disagreeable  to  Perry. 

Nevertheless,  the  Chronicle  had  had  the  best  of 
Hazlitt"s    stage    criticisms,    his    papers    on    Kean. 
Kean's  acting,  as  I  have  said,   was  invaluable  to 
Hazlitt  as  a  stimulus.     It  stimulated  him  to  a  sort 
of  rivalry  in  Shakespearian  interpretation,  the  actor 
fairly  setting  his  own  conception  of  the  part  against 
the  actor's  rendering  of  it,  giving  him  magnificent 
praise  when  the  two  agreed,  and  often  linding  care- 
fully pondered  reasons  for  disagreement.     Hazlitt 
might   have   said   of  Kean    what   Johnson   said   of 
Burke:    "This  fellow  calls  forth  all  my  powers." 
The  result  is  twofold.     You  get  vivid  descriptions 
of  Kean's  acting,  his  voice,  his  figure,  his  gestures, 
his  perpetual  passionateness,  in  season  and  out  of 
season  (misrepresenting — e.g.,  Shakespeare's  Richard 
II.,  as  Ilazlitt  said,  as  a  character  of  passion  instead 
of  as  a  character  of  pathos).    And  at  the  same  time 
you  get  the   "  psychology  '   (an  inevitable  cliche, 
cast  since  Ilazlitt's  day)  of  the  chief  Shakespearian 
tragic  ciiaractcrs,  cart-lully  "  documented  "  by  tiie 
text  and  elaborated  and  coloured  by  Ilazlitt's  sym- 
pathetic vision.    You  see  the  same  i)roccss  at  work 
in  llie  criticisms  of  Keml)le  and  Mrs.  Siddons  and 
Macrcady,  but  (remember  llu-  grcal  Sarah  had  iiad 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

her  day  before  Hazlitt  began  to  write)  with  a  milder 
stiniuhmt  there  was  a  milder  response.  In  any  case 
it  was  a  gallery  of  portraits — a  series  of  full-length 
figures  partly  from  life  and  partly  from  the  Shake- 
spearean text.  There  was  little  background  or 
atmosphere. 

That  is  what  makes  Hazlitt's  criticism  so  unlike 
any  modern  sort.  He  WTote  in  an  age  of  great  his- 
trionics, great  interpretative  art,  but  no  drama,  no 
creative  art.  His  elaborate  studies  of  dead-and- 
gone  players  have  (except  as  illustrating  Shake- 
speare) often  a  merely  antiquarian  interest.  It  is  a 
curious  detail  that  Kean's  Richard  IH.  in  early  per- 
formances "  stood  with  his  hands  stretched  out, 
after  his  sword  was  taken  from  him,"  and  later 
"  actually  fought  with  liis  doubled  fists  like  some 
helpless  infant."  So  it  is  a  curious  detail  that  Napo- 
leon I.  wore  a  green  coat  and  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  back.  But  compare  this  dwelling  on  the 
minutifc  of  an  actor's  business  or,  to  take  a  fairer 
example,  compare  Hazlitt's  analysis  of  the  character 
of  lago  (as  a  test  of  Kean's  presentation) — one  of 
his  acutest  things — with  the  range  and  variety  and 
philosophic  depth  of  a  criticism  by  Jules  Lemaitre. 
You  are  in  a  different  world.  Instead  of  the  niggling 
details  of  how  this  man  raised  his  arm  at  a  given 
moment  or  delivered  a  classic  speech  in  a  certain 
way  you  get  a  criticism  of  life,  all  life,  qidcquid  agiini 
homines.  It  is  interesting,  mildly  interesting,  to 
know  that  Kean's  Richard  was  (for  Hazlitt)  too 
204 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT 

grave  and  his  lago  too  gay,  but  after  all  we  cannot 
be  perpetuall}^  contemplating  these  particular  per- 
sonages of  Shakespeare.  We  need  fresh  ideas,  fresh 
creations,  new  views  of  society,  anything  for  a 
change,  so  long  as  it  is  a  thing  "  to  break  our  minds 
upon."  We  have  no  "  great"  Shakespearean  actors 
now,  but  even  if  we  had,  should  we  care  to  devote 
to  them  the  minute,  elaborate  attention  paid  by 
Hazlitt  ?  One  thinks  of  that  time,  a  hundred  years 
ago,  of  the  great  tragedy  kings  and  queens  as  rather 
a  stuffy  world.  Playgoing  must  have  been  a  formid- 
able enterprise  .  .  .  but  yet,  you  never  can  tell. 
There  were  frolicsome  compensations.  You  might 
come  back  from  the  play  to  the  ofiicc  to  learn  your 
editor  had  been  dining  with  a  duke.  And  with  luck 
next  morning  you  might  find  a  pretty  actress  at  his 
door. 


205 


TALK  AT  THE  MARTELLO  TOWER 

Our  boatman  with  blue  eyes  and  red  cheeks  is  not 
more  skilful  with  the  oar  than  any  of  his  fellows  or 
more  ready  to  give  you  change  out  of  a  shilling  when 
he  has  rowed  you  across  the  harbour,  though  the 
notice  board  says  the  fare  is  twopence.  But  the 
ladies  love  primary  colours,  and  we  had  to  have  him. 
We  all  three  had  our  novels,  and  the  blue  cj^es  glanced 
at  them,  especially  the  yellow-baek,  with  disfavour. 
lie  is  a  Swcdcnborgian — our  little  port,  like  most,  is 
rich  in  out-of-the-way  religions — and  presumably 
regards  all  modern  literature  as  on  the  wrong  tack. 
It  was  not  until  we  had  parted  with  him  at  the 
Martello  tower  that  we  dared  open  our  books. 

Selina  had  grabbed  Patty's,  the  yellow-back,  but 
she  soon  laid  it  down,  and  made  a  face.  "  My  dear 
Patty,"  she  said  wearily,  "  how  can  you  go  on  reading 
Gyp  ?  Don't  you  sec  that  tiic  silly  woman  doesn't 
even  know  how  to  tell  her  own  silly  stories  ?  " 

Patty  slightly  flushed.  She  knew  Gyp  was  a 
countess  and  great-granddaughter  of  Mirabeau- 
Tonneau,  and  felt  it  was  almost  Bolshevist  manners 
to  call  so  well-born  a  woman  silly.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  frigid  than  her  "  What  on  earth  do 
you  mean,  Selina  ?  " 

206 


TALK     AT    MARTELLO    TOWER 

"  I  mean,"  said  Selina,  "  that  the  poor  woman  is 
dreadfully  vieiix  jeu.  Vn\  not  thinkin<f  of  her  social 
puppets,  her  vicious  clubmen,  her  languid  swells, 
her  anti-Semite  Hebrews,  her  fashionable  ladies  who 
are  no  better  than  they  should  be  thoutrh,  goodness 
knows,  these  are  old-fashioned  enough.  She  began 
making  them  before  I  was  born."  (Selina  is  no 
chicken,  but  it  was  horrid  of  Patty  to  raise  her 
eyebrows.)  "  ^^'hat  I  mean  is,  that  she  is  at  the 
old  worn-out  game  of  playing  the  omniscient  author. 
Here  she  is  telling  you  not  only  what  Josette  said  and 
did  when  La  Rcole  attacked  her,  but  what  La  Rcole 
said  and  did  when  Josette  had  left  him,  and  so  on. 
She  '  goes  behind  '  everybody,  tells  you  what  is 
inside  everybody's  head.  Why  cant  she  take  her 
point  of  view,  and  stick  to  it.  Wasn't  her  obvious 
point  of  view  Joscttes  ?  Then  she  should  have  told 
us  nothing  about  the  other  people  but  what  Josette 
could  know  or  divine  about  them." 

"  Ah,  Selina,  '  I  interrupted,  "  your  '  goes  behind  ' 
gives  you  away.  You've  been  reading  Henry 
James's  letters.'' 

"  Like  everybody  else,"  she  snapped. 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  oh  Jacobite  Selina,  but  one  may 
read  them  without  taking  their  asthetics  for  law 
and  gospel.  1  know  that  the  dear  man  lectured 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  about  the  '  |)()int  of  view,' 
when  she  was  writing  '  Klinor,'  and  got,  I  fancy, 
ratluT  a  tart  answer  for  his  pains.  Hut  you  are 
morr  iiitr;insig(iif  than  the  master.     For  he  a(hnit  ted 

207 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

that  tlic  point  of  view  was  -all  according  to  cir- 
cumstances, and  that  some  circumstances — for 
instance,  a  big  canvas — made  '  omniscience  '  in- 
evitable. What  about  Balzac  and  Tolstoy  ?  Both 
took  tlie  omniscient  line,  and,  as  novelists,  are  not 
exactly  to  be  sneezed  at." 

"  Yes,  but  Gyp's  isn't  a  big  canvas,"  said  Selina 
"  and  it  seems  to  me  nen  dcplaise  a  voire  seigneurie, 
that  this  precious  story  of  hers  called  aloud  for 
Josette's  point  of  ^  iew,  and  nothing  but  Josette's. 
She  is  the  one  decent  woman  in  the  book,  according 
to  Gyp's  queer  standards  of  decency  *  (Patty 
sniffed),  "  and  the  whole  point,  so  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  is  the  contrast  of  her  decent  mind  with  the 
liiijhly  indecent  people  round  her.  She  is  as  innocent 
as  Maisie,  but  a  Maisie  grown  up  and  married.  What 
a  chance  for  another  '  What  Maisie  knew  '  1  " 

"  I  only  wish  I  knew  what  you  two  are  talking 
about,"  pouted  Patty. 

"  That  is  not  necessary,  dear  cliild,"  I  said,  in  my 
best  avuncular  manner.  "  You  are  a  Maisie  your- 
self— a  Maisie  who  reads  French  novels.  But, 
Selina,  dear,  look  at  your  own  Henry  Janies's  own 
practice.  He  didn't  always  choose  liis  point  of  view 
and  stick  to  it.  He  chose  two  in  '  The  Golden 
Bowl,'  and  three  in  '  The  Wings  of  the  Dove,"  and 
I'm  hanged  if  I  know  whether  he  took  several,  or 
none  at  all,  in  '  The  Awkward  Age.'  " 

"  Well,"  rejoined  Selina,  "  and  isn't  that  just  why 
those  books  don't  quite  come  off  ?     Don't  you  feel 

208 


TALK    AT    MARTELLO    TOWER 

that  '  The  Golden  Bowl  '  is  not  one  book  but  two, 
and  that  '  The  Wings  '  is  almost  as  kaleidoscopic  " 
(Patty  gasped)  "  as  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book  '  ?  I 
mentioned  '  Maisie,'  but  after  all  that  was  a  tour  de 
force,  it  seemed  to  have  been  done  for  a  wager. 
If  you  challenge  me  to  give  you  real  perfection, 
why,  take  '  The  Ambassadors  '  and  '  The  Spoils  of 
Poynton,'  Was  ever  the  point  of  view  held  more 
tight  ?  Everything  seen  through  Strether's  eyes, 
everything  through  Fleda's  1  " 

"  Oh,  I  grant  you  the  success  of  the  method  there, 
but,  dear  Selina  "  (I  had  lit  my  pipe  and  felt  equal  to 
out-arguing  a  non-smoker  in  the  long  run),  "  let  us 
distinguish."  (Patty  strolled  away  with  her  Gyp 
while  we  distinguished.)  "  The  method  of  Henry 
James  was  good  for  Henry  James.  What  was  the 
ruling  motive  of  his  people  ?  Curiosity  about  one 
another's  minds.  Now,  if  he  had  just  told  us  their 
minds,  straightway,  by  '  getting  behind  '  each  of 
them  in  turn,  in  the  '  omniscient '  style,  there 
would  have  been  no  play  of  curiosity,  no  chance  for 
it  even  to  begin,  the  cat  would  have  been  out  of  the 
bag.  By  putting  his  point  of  view  inside  one  of  his 
people  and  steadily  keeping  it  fixed  there,  he  turns 
all  the  other  people  into  mere  appearances — just  as 
other  people  are  for  each  one  of  us  in  real  life.  We 
have  to  guess  and  to  infer  what  is  in  their  minds,  we 
make  mistakes  and  correct  them  ;  sometimes  they 
purposely  mislead  us.  This  is  rather  a  nuisance, 
perhaps,    in    the   real    world   of  action,    where   our 

r.p.  209  P 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

curiosity  must  have  a  '  business  end  '  to  it  ;  hut  it 
is  (for  those  who  like  it,  as  you  and  I  do,  SeHna) 
immense  fun  in  the  world  of  fiction." 

"  Now,"  interjected  Selina,  "  you  are  talking  ! 
That  is  precisely  my  case." 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Selina.  I  said  the  method  was 
good  for  the  writer  whose  temperament  it  suited. 
But  so  are  other  methods  for  other  temperaments. 
You  may  tell  your  story  all  in  letters,  if  you  are  a 
Richardson,  or  with  perpetual  digressions  and  state- 
ments that  you  arc  telling  a  story,  if  you  are  a 
Fielding  or  a  Thackeray,  or  autobiographically,  if 
your  autobiography  is  a  '  Copperfield  '  or  a  '  Kid- 
napped.' Every  author,  I  suggest,  is  a  law  to  him- 
self. And  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  l)ar 
'  omniscience,'  as  you  apparently  want  to.  Why 
forbid  the  novelist  the  historian's  ])ri\ilege  ?  Why 
rule  out  tiie  novel  which  is  a  history  of  imaginary 
facts  ?  " 

"  I  can't  (piitc  see  Gyp  as  a  historian,"  said 
Selina. 

"  No  more  can  I,  thank  goodness,"  said  Patty. 

And  so  we  were  rowed  back  to  the  jetty,  and  the 
blue  eyes  didn't  blink  over  half-a-erown  under  the 
very  notice  board. 


210 


AGAIN  AT  THE  MARTELLO  TOWER 

Now  that  regattas  are  over  and  oysters  have  come 
in  again,  our  little  port  has  returned  to  its  normal 
or  W.  W.  Jacobs  demeanour.  The  bathers  on  the 
sand-spit  have  struck  their  tents.  The  Salvation 
Army  band  is  practising  its  winter  repertory.  When 
our  blue-eyed  boatman  rowed  us  over  to  the  Martello 
tower  again  the  other  day,  he  almost  looked  as 
though  he  expected  little  more  than  his  legal  fare. 
Selina,  who  has  the  gift  of  management,  suggested 
that  Patty  should  try  it  on  with  him,  on  the  ground, 
first,  that  women  always  do  these  things  better  than 
men,  and,  second,  that  Patty  was  blue-eyes'  favourite. 
I  acquiesced,  and  Patty  borrowed  half-a-crown  of  me, 
so  as  to  be  prepared  when  the  time  came. 

Meanwhile  Selina  began  to  read  us  extracts  from 
Professor  Henri  IJcrgson  on  "  Laughter."  Selina  is 
a  serious  person  without,  so  far  as  I  have  ever  dis- 
covered, a  grain  of  Immour  in  her  composition. 
These  are  just  tljc  people  who  read  theories  of  laughter. 
It  is  a  mystery  to  them,  and  they  desire  to  have 
it  explained.  "'  A  laughable  expression  of  the  face," 
began  Selina,  "is  one  that  will  make  us  think  of 
something  rigid  and,  so  to  speak,  coagulated,  in  the 
wonted  mobility  of  the  face.  What  we  shall  see  will 
be  an  ingrained  twitching  uv  a  lixcd  grimace.  One 
I'll  I'-' 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

would  say  that  the  person's  whole  moral  life  has 
crystallized  into  this  particular  cast  of  features." 

"  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  George  Robey's  whole 
moral  life  has,''  dropped  Patty,  innocently. 

"  And  who,  pray,"'  said  Selina,  with  her  heavy 
eyebrows  making  semi-circles  of  indignant  surprise, 
"  is  Mr.  George  Robey  ?  " 

I  sat  silent.  I  had  just  brought  my  niece  back 
from  a  short  but  variegated  stay  in  town.  I  knew, 
but  I  would  not  tell. 

"  Why,  Selina,  dear,"  answered  Patty,  "  you  are 
the  very  image  of  him  with  your  eyebrows  rounded 
like  that.  He  is  always  glaring  at  the  audience  that 
way." 

"  Will  you,  Patty,"  said  Selina,  now  thoroughly 
roused,  "  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  Well,  he's  an  actor,  who  makes  the  very  faces 
your  Bergson  describes.  Uncle  took  me  to  see  him 
in  a  "  (catching  my  warning  eye) — "  in  a  sort  of 
historical  play.  He  was  Louis  XV.,  at  Versailles,  you 
know." 

"  H'm,"  said  Selina,  "  it's  rather  a  doubtful 
period  ;  and  the  very  best  historical  plays  do  make 
such  a  hash  of  history.  Was  it  in  blank  verse  ? 
Blank  verse  will  do  nmch  to  mitigate  the  worst 
period." 

"  N-no,"  answered  Patty,  "  I  don't  think  it  was 
in  blank  verse.    I  didn't  notice  ;    did  you.  Uncle  ?  " 

I  tried  to  prevaricate.  "  Well,  you  never  know 
about  Ijlank  verse  on  the  stage  nowadays,  nearly  all 

212 


AGAIN    AT    MARTELLO    TOWER 

the  actors  turn  it  into  prose.  Mr.  Robey  may  have 
been  speaking  blank  verse,  as  though  it  were  prose. 
The  best  artists  cannot  escape  the  fashion  of  the 
moment,  you  know." 

"  But  what  did  he  do  ?  "  insisted  Selina,  "  What 
was  the  action  of  the  play  ?  " 

Patty  considered.  "  I  don't  remember  his  doing 
anything,  Selina,  dear,  but  chuck  the  ladies  of  the 
Court  under  the  chin.  Oh,  yes,  and  he  made  eyes  at 
them  affectionately." 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  historical  play,  on  my  word  !  " 
exclaimed  Selina. 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  all  historical,  Selina,  dear,"  said 
Patty,  sweetly.  "  A  lot  of  it  was  thoroughly  modern, 
and  Mr.  Robey  wore  a  frock  coat,  and  such  a  funny 
little  bowler  hat,  and  another  time  he  was  a  street 
musician  in  Venice  with  a  stuffed  monkey  pinned  to 
his  coat-tails." 

Selina  looked  at  me.  There  was  a  silent  pause  that 
would  have  made  anybody  else  feel  uncomfortable, 
but  I  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  I  snatched  Selina's 
book  out  of  her  hand,  and  said,  cheerfully,  "  You  see, 
Selina,  it's  all  explained  here.  \V'onderful  fellow, 
Bergson.  '  Something  mechanical  encrusted  upon 
the  living,'  that  s  the  secret  of  the  comic.  Depend 
upon  it,  he  had  seen  George  Robey  and  tiic  stuffed 
monkey.  And  if  Hcrgson,  who's  a  tremendous  swell, 
member  of  the  institute,  and  all  that,  wiiy  not  Patty 
and  I  ?  " 

"  And  where,"  asked  Seliiui,  with  a  rueful  glance 

2ia 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

at  the  Berpson  book,  as  thoufrh  she  began  to  distrust 
theories  of  the  comic,  "  where  was  this  jirecious  per- 
formance ?  " 

"  At  the  Alhambra,"  answered  Patty,  simply. 

"  The  Alliambra  !  I  remember  Chateaubriand 
once  visited  it,"  said  Selina,  who  is  nothing  if  not 
literary,  "  but  I  didn't  know  it  was  the  haunt  of 
philosophers." 

I  looked  as  though  it  was,  but  Patty  tactlessly 
broke  in,  "  Oh,  I  wish  you  two  wouldn't  talk  about 
philosophers.  Can't  one  laugh  at  Mr.  Robey  without 
having  him  explained  by  Bergson  ?  Anyhow,  I 
don't  believe  he  can  explain  Mr.  Nelson  Keys."' 

"  Another  of  your  historical  actors  ?  "  inquired 
Selina  with  some  bitterness. 

"  Yes,  Selina,  dear,  and  much  more  historical  than 
Mr.  Robey.  He  played  Beau  lirummell  and  they 
were  all  there,  Fox  and  Sheridan  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  you  know,  all  out  of  your  favourite  Crecvey, 
and  they  said  '  egad  '  and  '  la  '  and  '  monstrous  i'lnc,' 
and  bowed  and  congee'd  like  anything — oh,  it  was 
awfully  historical." 

Selina,  a  great  reader  of  memoirs,  was  a  little  molli- 
fied. "  Come,"  she  said,  "  this  is  better — though  the 
Regency  is  another  dangerous  period.  I'm  glad, 
however,  that  Londoners  seem  to  be  looking  to  the 
theatre  for  a  little  historical  instruction.'' 

"  Yes,  Selina,"  I  said,  feeling  that  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  let  Patty  speak  just  at  that  moment, 
"  and  there  is  a  certain  type  of  contemporary  i>lay, 

2U 


AGAIN  AT  MART  EL  LO  TOWER 

called    reinie,    which    recojTiiizcs    that    demand    and 
seldom,  if  ever,  fails  to  cater  for  it.    In  revues  I  have 
renewed  acquaintance  with  the  heroes  of  classical 
antiquity,    witli    prominent    crusaders,    with   Queen 
Elizabeth,    with    the    Grand    Monarque — a    whole 
course  of  history,  in  fact.    Let  Bergson  explain  that, 
if  he  can.     And,  what  is  more  wonderful  still,  our 
revue  artists,  whose  talent  is  usually  devoted  to  pro- 
voking laughter,  seem  willingly  to  forgo  it  for  the 
honour  of  appearing  as  an  historical  personage.    Mr. 
Robey  and  Mr.  Keys,   I  should  tell  you,  are  both 
professional  laughter-provokers,  indeed  are  the  heads 
of  their  profession,  yet  one  is  content  to  posture  as 
Louis  Quinze  and  the  other  as  Beau  Brummell  with- 
out any  real  chance  of  being  funny.    So  the  past  ever 
exerts  its  prestige  over  us.     So  the  muse  of  history 
still  weaves  her  spell." 

"  Which  was  the  muse  of  history,  Patty,  dear  ?  "  said 
Selina,  whose  equanimity  was  now  happily  restored. 

"  Oh,  bother,  I  forget,"  said  Patty,  "  and,  anyhow, 
I  don't  think  she  has  as  much  to  do  with  revues  as 
uncle  pretends.  Give  mc  the  real  muse  of  revue  who 
inspired  .Mr.  Keys  with  his  German  waiter  and  his 
Spanish  mandolinist  and  his  Japanese  juggler 
and " 

"  This,"  I  said,  to  put  an  end  to  Patty's  indiscreet 
prattle,  "  must  be  the  muse  of  geography." 

Patty  gave  me  no  change  out  of  my  half-crown. 
The  boatman  said  he  didn't  happen  to  have  any. 
So  mur'h  for  Sclina's  m.-niagcnK-iil  ! 

215 


THE    SILENT    STAGE 

The  spoken  drama  and  the  silent  stage.  I  came 
across  this  dichotomy  in  The  Times  the  other  day, 
not  without  a  pang,  for  it  was  a  day  too  late.  It  is 
not  a  true  dichotomy.  It  does  not  distinguish 
accurately  between  the  story  told  by  living  actors 
to  our  faces  and  the  story  told  by  successive  photo- 
graphs of  such  actors.  For  the  "  silent  stage  " 
would  cover  pantomime,  a  form  of  drama,  and  a  very 
ancient  form,  acted  by  living  actors.  It  is  not  true, 
but  it  is  for  practical  uses  true  enough.  In  life  we 
have  to  make  the  best  of  rough  approximations.  I 
would  have  used  this  one  gratefully  had  it  occurred 
to  me  in  my  moment  of  need.     But  it  did  not. 

Let  me  explain.  One  of  our  more  notable  come- 
dians (I  purposely  put  it  thus  vaguely,  partly  out  of 
discretion,  partly  with  a  bid  for  that  interest  which 
the  mystery  of  anonymity  is  apt  to  confer  upon  an 
otherwise  matter-of-fact  narrative,  as  George  Borrow 
well  knew) — one  of  our  most  notable  comedians, 
then,  had  asked  me  to  accompany  him  to  a 
''  cinema  "  rehearsal  wherein  he  was  cast  for  the 
principal  part.  I  eagerly  accepted,  because  the  art 
of  the  "  cinema  "  is  becoming  so  important  in  our 
daily  life  that  one  really  ought  to  learn  something 
216 


THE    SILENT    STAGE 

about  it,  and,  moreover,  because  the  cuisine  of  any 
art  (see  the  Diary  of  the  De  Goncourts  passim)  is  a 
fascinating  thing  in  itself.  Our  rehearsal  was  to  be 
miles  away,  in  the  far  East  of  London,  and  the  mere 
journey  was  a  geographical  adventure.  The  scene 
was  a  disused  factory,  and  a  disused  factory  has 
something  of  the  romantic  melancholy  of  a  dis- 
affected cathedral — not  the  romance  of  ruins,  but  the 
romance  of  a  fabric  still  standing  and  valid,  but 
converted  to  alien  uses. 

Our  first  question  on  arrival  was,  were  we  late  ? 
This  question  seems  to  be  a  common  form  of  polite- 
ness with  notable  comedians,  and  is  probably 
designed  to  take  the  wind  out  of  the  sails  of  possible 
criticism.  No,  we  were  not  late — though  everybody 
seemed  to  be  suspiciously  ready  and,  one  feared, 
waiting.  They  were  a  crowd  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men in  elaborate  evening  dress,  all  with  faces  painted 
a  rich  cafe  au  lait  or  else  salmon-colour,  and  very  odd 
such  a  crowd  looked  against  the  whitewashed  walls 
and  bare  beams  of  the  disused  factory.  The 
scenery  looked  even  more  odd.  It  presented  the 
middle  fragments  of  everytiiing  without  any  edges. 
There  was  a  vast  baronial  hall,  decorated  with  suits 
of  armour  and  the  heaviest  furniture,  but  without 
either  ceiling  or  walls.  There  was  a  staircase  hung, 
so  to  speak,  in  the  air,  leading  to  a  doorway,  which 
was  just  the  framework  of  a  door,  standing  alone, 
let  into  nothing.  It  seemed  uncanny,  until  you 
remembered   the  simple   fact   that    llic  camera   can 

217 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

cover  just  as  much,  or  as  little,  of  a  scene  as  it 
chooses.  Great  fjlaring  "  cinema  "  lights — I  had  not 
seen  them  since  the  Beckett-Carpentier  fight — cast 
an  unearthly  pallor  upon  the  few  unpainted  faces. 
The  crowd  of  pi^inted  ladies  and  gentlemen  hung 
about,  waiting  for  their  scene  with  what  seemed  to 
me  astonishing  jiatience.  ]iut  patience,  I  suspect,  is 
a  necessary  virtue  at  all  rehearsals,  whether 
"  spoken  "  or  "  silent." 

And  that  distinction  brings  me  to  the  producer. 
It  was  for  him  that  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
thought  of  it.  For  he  fell  to  talking  to  me  about  his 
art,  the  art  of  production,  and  of  cinematography  in 
general,  and  I  found  myself  forced  to  make  some 
comparisons  with  what  I  had,  up  to  that  moment, 
always  thought  of  as  the  "  regular  ''  stage.  Hut 
evidently,  as  Jeffery  said  of  Wordsworth's  poem, 
this  would  never  do.  The  producer  might  have 
thought  I  was  reilectiiig  upon  his  art,  about  which  he 
was  so  enthusiastic,  as  something  "  irregular."  At 
last,  after  deplorable  hesitation,  I  found  my  phrase — 
the  "  other  "  stage.  Dreadfully  tame,  I  admit,  but 
safe  :  it  hurt  nobody.  Even  now,  however,  I  have 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  the  producer  was  not  quite 
satisfied  with  it.  I  ought  perhaps  to  have  accom- 
panied it  with  a  shrug,  some  sign  of  apology  for  so 
much  as  recognizing  the  existence  of  "  other  "  stages 
of  anything  else,  in  short,  than  what  was,  at  that 
moment  and  on  that  spot,  the  stage,  the  "  silent  " 
stage,  the  stage  of  moving  pictiirrs.  It  was  like 
2  IS 


THE    SILENT    STAGE 

speaking  of  P'ritli's  "  Derby  Day  "  in  the  presence 
of  a  Cubist.  Artistic  enthusiasts  must  be  allowed 
their  little  exclusions. 

If  the  producer  was  an  enthusiast,  there  was 
certainly  a  method  in  his  enthusiasm.  His  table  was 
covered  with  elaborate  geometrical  drawings,  which, 
I  was  told,  were  first  sketches  for  successive  scenes. 
On  pegs  hung  little  schedules  of  the  artists  required 
for  each  scene,  and  of  the  scenes  wherein  each  of 
the  principals  was  concerned.  Innumerable  photo- 
graphs, of  course — photographs  of  scenes  actually 
represented  on  the  "  film,"  and  of  others  not  repre- 
sented, experiments  for  the  actual,  final  thing.  For 
it  is  to  l)c  remembered  that  the  producer  of  a  "  film  '" 
is  relatively  more  important  than  the  producer  of  a 
"  spoken  drama.""  He  is  always  part,  and  sometimes 
whole,  author  of  the  play.  He  has  to  conceive  the 
successive  phases  of  the  action  in  detail,  and  to  con- 
ceive them  in  terms  of  photography.  Even  with 
some  one  elses  j)lay  as  a  datum  he  has,  I  take  it,  to 
in  vent  a  good  deal.  For  while  the  "  spoken  drama  " 
can  only  show  selected,  critical  moments  of  life,  the 
"  silent  stage  ""  aims  at  contiiuiity  and  gives  you  the 
intervening  moments.  On  the  one  stage,  when  a 
lady  makes  an  afternoon  call,  you  see  her  hostess's 
drawing-room,  and  she  walks  in  ;  on  the  other  stage 
you  see  her  starting  from  home,  jumjiing  into  her 
Rolls-Royce,  dashing  through  the  crowded  streets, 
knocking  at  the  front  door,  being  relieved  of  her 
cloak   by   the   flunkey,   mounting  the  stiiirs   to  the 

21U 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

drawing-room,  etc.,  etc.  Indeed,  this  mania  for 
continuity  is  a  besetting  sin  of  the  "  silent  stage  "  ; 
it  leads  to  sheer  irrelevance  and  the  ruin  of  all 
proportion.  My  enthusiastic  producer,  it  is  only 
fair  to  say,  was  far  too  good  an  artist  to  approve 
it. 

"  At  the  first  whistle,  get  ready,"  shouted  the 
producer,  "  at  the  second,  slow  waltz,  please."     And 
then  the  baronial  hall  was  filled  by  the  crowd  of 
exemplary  patience  and  they  danced  with  unaffected 
enjoyment,   these  gay  people,   just  as   though   no 
camera     were     directed     on     them.      The    heroine 
appeared  (she  was  the  daughter  of  the  house,  and  this 
was  her  first  ball — indicated  by  a  stray  curl  down  her 
back),  and  her  ravishing  pink  gown,   evidently  a 
choice  product  of  the  West-end,  looked  strange  in  a 
disused    East-end    factory.     Of    course    she    had 
adopted  the  inexorable  "  cinema  "  convention  of  a 
'*  Cupid's  bow  "  mouth.     Here  is  the  youngest  of  the 
arts    already    fast    breeding    its    own    conventions. 
Surely  the  variety  of  female  lips  might  be  recognized  ! 
Women's   own  mouths  are  generally  prettier,   and 
certainly  more  suitable  to  their  faces,   than  some 
rigidly  fixed  type.     It  would  be  ungallant  to  say 
that   the   leading   lady's    "  Cupid's   bow  "   did    not 
become  her,   but  the  shape  of  her  own   mouth,   I 
venture  to  suggest,   would  have  been  better  still. 
And  where  was  my  friend  the  notable  comedian  all 
this  time  ?     Rigging  himself  out  in  evening  clerical 
dress  for  the  ball  (he  was  the  vicar  of  the  parish),  and 

220 


THE    SILENT    STAGE 

evidently  regarding  his  momentary  deviation  into 
"  film  "  work  (for  the  beneht  of  a  theatrical  charity) 
as  great  fun.  Will  the  heroes  of  the  "  silent  stage," 
I  wonder,  ever  deviate  into  "  spoken  drama  "  ?  It 
would  be  startling  to  hear  Charlie  Chaplin  speak. 


'221 


THE    MOVIES 

All  is  dark  and  an  excellent  orchestra  is  playing 
a  Beethoven  symphony.  The  attendant  flashes  you 
to  your  seat  with  licr  torch,  you  tumble  over  a 
subaltern,  and  murnuir  to  yourself,  with  Musset's 
Fantasio,  "  Quelles  solitudes  que  tons  ces  corps 
humains  !  "  For  that  is  the  first  odd  thinfj  that 
strikes  you  about  the  movies  ;  the  psychology  of 
the  audience  is  not  collective,  but  individual.  You 
are  not  aware  of  yoin-  neighbour,  who  is  shrouded 
from  your  gaze,  aiul  you  take  your  pleasure  alone. 
Thus  you  are  rid  of  the  "  contagion  of  the  crowd," 
the  claims  of  human  sympathy,  the  imitative 
impulse,  and  thrown  in  upon  yourself,  a  hermit  at 
the  mercy  of  the  hallucinations  that  beset  the  soli- 
tary. You  never  applaud,  for  that  is  a  collective 
action.  What  with  the  soothing  How  of  the  nmsic, 
the  darkness,  and  the  fact  that  your  eye  is  fixed  on 
one  bright  spot,  you  are  in  the  ideal  condition  for 
hypnotism,  lint  the  suspected  presence  of  others, 
vague  shadows  hovering  near  you,  give  your  mood 
the  last  touch  of  the  imeanny.  You  are  a  prisoner 
in  Plato's  cave  or  in  some  crepusciUar  solitude  of 
Maeterlinck.     Anything  might  happen. 

According  to  the  progranune  what  Iiappens  is 
222 


THE    MOVIES 

called  The  Prodigal  Wife.  Her  iiusband  is  a  doctor 
and  she  pines  for  gaiety  while  he  is  busy  at  the 
hospital.  It  is  her  birthday  and  he  has  forgotten 
to  bring  her  her  favourite  roses,  which  are  in  fact 
offered  to  her  by  another  gentleman  with  more 
leisure  and  a  better  memory.  Our  own  grievance 
against  the  husband,  perhaps  capricious,  is  his 
appalling  straw  hat — but  then  we  equally  dislike 
the  lover's  tail-coat,  so  matters  are  even,  and  the 
lady's  preference  of  No.  2  to  No.  1  seems  merely 
arbitrary.  Anyhow,  she  goes  off  with  No.  2  in  a 
motor-ear,  "  all  out,"  leaving  the  usual  explanatory 
letter  behind  her,  which  is  thrown  on  the  screen  for 
all  of  us  to  gloat  over. 

Here  let  me  say  that  this  i)rofuse  exhibition 
on  the  screen  of  all  tlie  correspondence  in  the  case, 
letters,  telegrams,  copies  of  verses,  last  wills  and 
testaments,  the  whole  dossier,  strikes  me  as  a  mistake. 
It  under-values  the  intelligence  of  the  audience, 
which  is  quite  capable  of  guessing  what  people  are 
likely  to  write  in  the  gi\'en  eireumstanees  without 
being  put  to  the  indelicacy  of  reading  it.  As  it  is, 
you  no  sooner  see  some  one  handling  a  scrap  of  paper 
than  )'ou  kiujw  you  are  going  to  have  the  wretched 
scrawl  thrust  under  your  nose.  As  if  we  didn't 
know  all  about  these  things  !  As  if  it  wouldn't  be 
pleasanter  to  leave  the  actual  text  to  conjecture  !  I 
remember  in  Juhellious  Susan  there  is  a  packet  of 
eom[)romising  letters  shown  to  interesleel  parties, 
whose  vague  comments,  "  Well,  after  that,''  etc., 
223 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

sufficiently  cnliglitcn  us  without  anything  further. 
But  now,  when  Lady  Macbeth  reads  her  lord's  letter, 
up  it  goes  on  the  screen,  blots  and  all.  This  is  an 
abuse  of  the  film,  which  finds  it  easier  to  exhibit  a 
letter  than  to  explain  why  it  came  to  be  written. 
As  things  are,  the  lady  seems  to  have  eloped  in  a 
hurry  withovit  sufficient  grounds.  No.  2  presents 
his  roses,  and,  hey  presto  !  the  car  is  round  the 
corner.  No.  1  takes  it  very  nobly,  hugs  his  aban- 
doned babe  to  his  bosom,  and  pulls  long  faces 
(obligingly  brought  nearer  the  camera  to  show  the 
furrows).  The  mother's  sin  shall  ever  be  hidden 
from  the  innocent  child,  and  to  see  the  innocent 
child  innocently  asking,  "  Where's  muvver  ?  "  and 
being  answered  ^vith  sad  headshakes  from  the 
bereaved  parent  (now  bang  against  the  camera)  is 
to  bathe  in  sentimental  photography  up  to  the  neck. 
Thereafter  the  innocent  child  grows  like  (and 
actually  inside)  a  rosebud  till,  as  the  petals  fall  off, 
she  is  revealed  as  a  buxom  young  woman — the 
familiar  photographic  trick  of  showing  one  thing 
through  another  being  here  turned  to  something  like 
poetic  advantage.  But  then  the  film  again  bolts 
with  the  theme.  There  is  ruiming  water  and  a  boat, 
things  which  no  film  can  resist.  Away  go  the  girl 
and  her  sweetheart  on  a  river  excursion,  loosening 
the  painter,  jumping  in,  shoving  off,  performing,  in 
short,  every  antic  which  in  photography  can  be 
compassed  with  a  stream  and  a  boat.  We  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  prodigal  wife.  But  here  she 
224 


THE    MOVIES 

is  again,  her  hair  in  grey  bandeaux  and  her  hps,  as 
the  relentless  camera  shows  you  at  short  range, 
rouged  with  a  hard  outline.  She  has  returned  to 
her  old  home  as  the  family  nurse.  For  there  is  now 
another  innocent  babe,  the  doctor's  grandchild,  to 
wax  and  wane  with  the  advancing  and  receding 
camera,  and  to  have  its  little  "  nightie  "  blown 
realistically  by  the  usual  wind  as  it  stands  on  the 
stair-head.  The  doctor  himself  is  as  busy  as  ever, 
making  wonderful  pharmacological  discoveries  (news- 
paper extracts  exhibited  on  the  screen)  in  a  labora- 
tory blouse  and  dictating  the  results  (notes  shown 
on  the  screen)  to  an  enterprising  reporter. 

And  here  there  is  another  "  rushed  "  elopement. 
"  The  art  of  drama,"  said  Dumas,  "  is  the  art  of 
preparations."  But  nothing  has  prepared  us  (save, 
perhaps,  heredity)  for  the  sudden  freak  of  the 
prodigal  wife's  daughter  in  running  away  with  a 
lover  so  vague  that  you  see  only  his  hat  (another 
hideous  straw — il  ne  manquait  que  ca  !)  and  the  glow 
of  his  cigarette-end.  Family  nurse  to  the  rescue  ! 
Tender  expostulations,  reminders  about  the  innocent 
babe,  and  niek-of-timc  salvation  of  the  "  intending  " 
runaway.  Ultimate  meeting  of  nurse  and  doctor  ; 
he  is  all  forgiveness,  but  prodigal  wives  are  not  to  be 
forgiven  like  that.  No,  she  nuist  go  ojit  into  the 
snow,  and  you  see  her  walking  down  the  long  path, 
dwindling,  dwindling,  from  a  full-sized  nurse  into  a 
Euclidean  point. 

To  simi  up.     The  camera  would  do  Ixltcr  if  it 
p.p.  22.")  0 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

would  learn  self-denial  and  observe  the  law  of 
artistic  economy,  keep  its  people  consistently  in  one 
plane  and  out  of  boats  and  motor  cars,  soigner  its 
crises  a  little  more,  and  avoid  publishing  correspon- 
dence. And  it  should  slacken  its  pace  a  bit.  You 
may  take  the  Heraclitean  philosophy — Traiaa  x^P" 
— a  little  too  literally.  The  movies  would  be  all 
the  more  moving  for  moving  slower. 

For  the  real  fun  of  rapid  motion,  appropriately 
used,  give  me  Mutt  and  Jeff.  Mutt,  buried  in  the 
sand,  with  a  head  like  an  egg,  prompts  an  ostrich 
to  lay  another  egg,  from  which  emerges  a  brood  of 
little  ostriches.  Jeff  goes  out  to  shoot  them,  but 
his  shots  glance  off  in  harmless  ^v^eaths  of  smoke. 
When  Mutt  and  Jeff  exchange  ideas  you  see  them 
actually  travelling  like  an  electric  spark  along  the 
wire,  from  brain  to  brain.  The  ostrich  hoists  Mutt 
out  of  the  sand  by  the  breeches.  Collapse  of  Jeff. 
It  suggests  a  drawing  by  Caran  d'Ache  in  epileptic 
jerks.  The  natural  history  pictures,  too,  the  deer 
and  the  birds,  strike  one  as  admirable  examples  of 
what  animated  photography  can  do  for  us  in  the 
way  of  instruction  as  well  as  amusement.  .  .  .  And 
the  orchestra  has  been  playing  all  this  time, 
Beethoven  and  Mozart,  a  "  separate  ecstasy."  And 
again  I  stiunblc  over  the  subaltern,  and  wonder  to 
find  people  moving  so  slowly  in  Piccadilly  Circus. 


226 


TIME    AND    THE    FILM 

There  was  a  gentleman  in  Molicre,  frequently 
mentioned  since  and  now  for  my  need  to  be  un- 
blushingly  mentioned  again,  who  said  to  another 
gentleman,  about  never  mind  what,  that  le  temps  ne 
fait  rien  a  Vaffaire.  But  Molicre  belonged  to  that 
effete  art  tlie  "  spoken  drama,  '  which  we  learn, 
from  America,  has  sunk  to  be  used  mainly  as  an 
advertisement  of  the  play  which  is  subsequently  to 
be  filmed  out  of  it.  He  wrote  in  the  dark  or  pre- 
film  ages,  and  could  not  know  what  an  all-important 
part  le  temps  was  to  play  in  Vaffnire  of  the  film. 
Among  its  innumerable  and  magnificent  activities 
the  film  is  an  instructor  of  youth,  and  it  seems,  from 
a  letter  which  the  Rev.  Dr.  Lyttelton  has  written  to 
TJie  Times,  it  instructs  at  a  pace  which  is  a  little 
too  quick  for  the  soaring  human  boy.  "  Elephants," 
the  reverend  Doctor  pathetically  complains,  "  arc 
shown  scuttling  about  like  antelopes,"  and  so  the 
poor  boy  mixes  up  antelopes  and  elephants  and  gets 
his  zoology  all  wrong.  I  should  myself  have  inno- 
cently supposed  that  this  magical  acceleration  of 
pace  is  one  of  the  great  charms  of  the  Him  for  the 
boy.  It  not  only  provides  him  with  half-a-dozen 
pictures  in  the  time  it  would  have  taken  him  to  read 
227  Q  i 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

one  of  them  in  print  (to  say  nothing  of  his  being 
saved  the  trouble  of  reading,  learning  the  alphabet, 
and  other  pedagogic  nuisances  altogether),  but  it 
offers  him  something  much  more  exciting  and 
romantic  than  his  ordinary  experience.  He  knows 
that  at  the  Zoo  elephants  move  slowly,  but  here  on 
the  film  they  arc  taught,  in  the  American  phrase, 
to  "  step  lively,"  and  are  shown  scuttling  about  like 
antelopes,  A  world  wherein  the  ponderous  and  slow 
elephant  is  suddenly  endowed  by  the  magician's 
wand  with  the  lightness  and  rapidity  of  the  antelope 
— what  entrancemcnt  for  boys,  aye,  and  for  grown- 
ups too  ! 

Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  greatest  achieve- 
ment of  the  film  is  its  triumph  over  time.  Some 
amateurs  may  find  its  chief  charm  in  the  perfect 
"  Cupid's  bow  "'  of  its  heroines'  mouths  ;  others  in 
the  remarkable  English  prose  of  its  explanatory 
accompaniments ;  others,  again,  in  its  exquisite 
humour  of  protagonists  smothered  in  flour  or  soap- 
lather  or  flattened  under  runaway  motor-cars.  I 
admit  the  irresistible  fascination  of  these  delights 
and  can  quite  tuidcrstand  how  they  come  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  the  high-class  opera  company  which  has 
been  introduced  at  the  Capitol,  New  York,  to  enter- 
tain "  between  pictures."  But  I  still  think  the 
prime  merit  of  the  lilm — the  real  reason  for  which 
last  year  more  than  enough  picture  films  to  encircle 
the  earth  at  the  Equator  left  the  United  States  of 
America  for  foreign  countries — lies  in  its  ability  to 

228 


TIME    AND    THE    FILM 

play  as  it  will  with  time.  The  mere  acceleration  of 
pace  (which  is  the  ordinary  game  it  plays) — the 
fierce  galloping  of  horses  across  prairies,  the  miracu- 
lous speed  of  motor-cars,  elephants  scuttling  about 
like  antelopes — gives  a  sharp  sense  of  exhilaration, 
of  victory  over  sluggish  nature.  And  even  here 
there  is  an  educational  result  that  ought  to  console 
Dr.  Lyttelton.  The  rate  of  plant  growth  is  multi- 
plied thousands  of  times  so  that  we  are  enabled 
actually  to  see  the  plants  growing,  expanding  from 
bud  to  flower  under  our  eyes.  But  there  is  also  the 
retardation  of  pace,  which  is  even  more  wonderful. 
A  diver  is  shown  plunging  into  the  water  and 
swimming  at  a  rate  which  allows  the  minutest  move- 
ment of  the  smallest  muscle  to  be  clearly  seen.  This 
is  an  entirely  beautiful  thing  ;  but  I  should  suppose 
that  the  film,  by  its  power  of  exhibiting  movements 
naturally  too  quick  for  the  eye  at  whatever  slower 
rate  is  desired,  must  have  extraordinary  use  for 
scicntilic  investigations.  This,  at  any  rate,  is  a 
better  use  for  the  film  than  that  sometimes  claimed 
for  it  in  the  field  of  morality.  I  look  with  suspicion 
on  those  films,  as  I  do  on  those  "  spoken  "  plays, 
that  propose  to  do  us  good  by  exhibiting  the  details 
of  this  or  that  "  social  evil."  Some  philanthropic 
societies,  I  believe,  have  introduced  such  pictures  in 
all  good  faith.  But  many  of  their  producers  are, 
like  the  others,  merely  out  to  make  money,  and  in 
every  case  I  imagine  their  patrons  to  be  drawn  to 
them  not  by  any  moral  impulse,  but  by  a  prurient 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

curiosity — the  desire  to  have  a  peep  into  the  for- 
bidden. 

But  to  return  to  the  question  of  time.  It  has  its 
importance,  too,  in  the  "  spoken  drama,"  but  it 
ceases  to  be  a  question  of  visible  pace.  You  cannot 
make  real  men  and  women  scuttle  about  like  ante- 
lopes. You  can  only  play  tricks  ^vith  the  clock.  The 
act-drop  is  invaluable  for  getting  your  imaginary 
time  outstripping  your  real  time  : — 

jumping  oer  times, 
Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 
Into  an  hour-glass. 

In  a  moment  it  bridges  over  for  you  the  gap  between 
youth  and  age,  as  in  Sweethearts.  But  there  is 
another  way  of  playing  tricks  with  the  clock,  by 
making  it  stand  still  for  some  of  your  personages, 
while  it  ticks  regularly  for  the  rest.  A.  E.  W.  Mason, 
in  one  of  his  stories,  gave  an  extra  quarter  of  an 
hour  now  and  then  to  one  of  the  characters — that  is 
to  say,  the  clock  stopped  for  them  during  that 
period,  but  not  for  him — and  while  outside  time,  so 
to  speak,  he  could  do  all  sorts  of  things  (if  I  re- 
member rightly  he  committed  a  murder)  without 
risk  of  detection.  But  the  great  magician  of  this 
kind  is  Barric.  The  heroine  of  his  Truth  about  the 
Russian  Dancers  had  a  sudden  desire  for  an  infant, 
and  within  a  half-hour  was  delivered  of  one  ;  a  re- 
markably rapid  case  of  parthenogenesis.  The  infant 
was  carried  out  and  returned  the  next  moment  a 
child  of  ten.  "  He  grows  apace,"  said  somebody. 
280 


TIME    AND    THE    FILM 

These  were  cases  of  the  clock  galloping.  With  the 
heroine  of  Mary  Ruse  on  the  island  it  stands  still, 
so  that  she  returns  twenty-five  years  later  to  her 
family  precisely  the  same  girl  as  she  left  them.  We 
all  know  what  pathetic  effects  Barrie  gets  out  of 
this  trick  with  the  clock.  But  he  has,  of  course,  to 
assume  supernatural  intervention  to  warrant  them. 
And  there  you  have  the  contrast  with  the  film.  In 
the  "  spoken  drama,"  poor,  decrepit  old  thing,  they 
appeal  to  that  silly  faculty,  the  human  imagination  ; 
whereas  the  film  has  only  to  turn  some  wheels 
quicker  or  slower  and  it  is  all  done  for  you,  under 
your  nose,  without  any  imagination  at  all.  Ele- 
phants are  scuttling  about  like  antelopes  and  divers 
plunging  into  the  water  at  a  snail's  pace.  No  wonder 
that,  according  to  our  New  York  advices,  "  film 
magnates  have  made  so  much  money  that  they  have 
been  able  to  buy  chains  of  theatres  throughout  the 
country,"  and  that  "  everybody  talks  films  in  the 
United  States." 


2a  1 


FUTURIST    DANCING 

That  amazing  propagandist,  Signer  Marinctti,  of 
Milan,  who  favours  me  from  time  to  time  witli  his 
manifestos,  now  sends  "  La  Uanse  Futuriste."  I 
confess  that  I  have  not  a  ha'porth  of  Futurism  in  my 
composition.  I  am  what  Signor  Marinetti  would 
himself  call  a  Passeiste,  a  mere  Pastist.  Hence  I 
have  generally  failed  to  discover  any  meaning  in 
these  manifestos,  and  have  thrown  them  into  the 
waste-paper  basket.  But  as  the  present  one 
hajipcns  to  arrive  at  the  same  time  as  another 
Futurist  tract — Signor  Ardcngo  Soffici's  "  Estetica 
Futurista  " — I  have  read  the  two  together,  to  see 
if  one  throws  any  light  on  the  other.  It  is  right  to 
say  that  "  the  "  Soffici  (to  adopt  an  Italianism) 
disclaims  any  connexion  with  "  the "  Marinetti, 
explaining  that  he  puts  forward  a  doctrine,  whereas 
oflieial  Futurism  has  no  doctrine,  but  only  mani- 
festos. It  couldn't  have,  he  rather  unkindly  adds, 
seeing  that  its  very  nature  is  "  anticultural  and 
instinctolatrous."  (Rather  jolly,  don't  you  think, 
the  rich  and  varied  vocabulary  of  these  Ralian 
gentlemen  ?)  Nevertheless,  I  have  ventured  to 
study  one  document  by  the  light  of  the  other  ;  and, 
if  the  result  is  only  to  make  darkness  visible,  it  is  a 
282 


FUTURIST    DANCING 

certain  gain,  after  ail,  to  get  any  tiling  visible  in  such 
a  matter. 

And  first  for  the  Marinetti.  His  manifesto  begins 
by  taking  an  historical  survey  of  dancing  through 
the  ages.  The  earliest  dances,  he  points  out, 
reflected  the  terror  of  humanity  at  the  unknown 
and  the  incomprehensible  in  the  Cosmos.  Thus 
round  dances  were  rhythmical  pantomimes  repro- 
ducing tlie  rotatory  movement  of  the  stars.  The 
gestures  of  the  Catholic  priest  in  the  celebration  of 
Mass  imitate  these  early  dances  and  contain  the 
same  astronomical  symbol — a  statement  calculated 
to  provoke  devout  Catholics  to  fury.  (I  should  like 
to  hear  the  learned  author  of  "  The  Golden  Bough  " 
on  the  anthropological  side  of  it.)  Then  came  the 
lascivious  dances  of  the  East,  and  their  modern 
Parisian  counterpart — or  sham  imitation.  For  this 
he  gives  a  quasi-mathematical  lornuda  in  the 
familiar  Futurist  style.  "  Parisian  red  pepper  + 
buckler  +  lance  +  ecstasy  before  idols  signifying 
nothing  +  nothing  +  undulation  of  Montmartre  hips 
=  erotic  Pastist  anachronism  for  tourists."  Golly, 
what  a  formula  ! 

Before  the  war  Paris  went  crazy  over  dances  from 
South  America  :  the  Argentine  fango,  the  Chilean 
zamacucca,  the  Brazilian  incuiixc,  tiie  Paraguayan 
santafi.  Compliments  to  Uiaghileff,  Nijinsky  ("  the 
pure  geometry  "'  of  dancing),  and  Isadora  Duueaii, 
"  whose  art  has  many  points  of  eontaet  with  impres- 
sionism in  painting,  just  as  Nijinsky *s  has  witji  the 

L'.'i.'i 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

forms  and  masses  of  Cezanne."     Under  the  influence 
of  Cubist  experiments,  and  particularly  imder  the 
influence  of  Picasso,  dancing  became  an  autonomous 
art.     It  was  no  longer  subject  to  music,  but  took  its 
place.     Kind  words  for  Dalcroze  ;  but  "  we  Futurists 
prefer  Loie  Fuller  and  the  nigger  cake-walk  (utiliza- 
tion of  electric  light  and  machinery)."     Machinery's 
the  thing  !     "  We  must  have  gestures  imitating  the 
movements  of  motors,  pay  assiduous  court  to  wings, 
wheels,    pistons,   prepare   the   fusion   of  man   and 
machine,  and  so  arrive  at  the  metallism  of  Futurist 
dancing.      Music  is  fundamentally  nostalgic,  and  on 
that  account  rarely  of  any  use  in  Futurist  dancing. 
Noise,  caused  by  friction  and  shock  of  solid  bodies, 
liquids,  or  high-pressure  gases,  has  become  one  of 
the    most    dynamic    elements    of    Futurist    poesy. 
Noise  is  the  language  of  the  new  human-mechanical 
life."     So  Futurist  dancing  will  be  accompanied  by 
"  organized  noises  "  and  the  orchestra  of  "  noise- 
makers  "    invented     by     Luigi     Russolo.     Finally, 
Futurist     dancing     will     be : — 

Inharmonious  —  Ungraceful  —  Asymmetrical  — 

Dy  nami  c — Moilihriste. 
All  this,  of  course,  is  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff.  The 
Futurist  aim  is  simply  to  run  counter  to  tradition, 
to  go  by  rule  of  contrary,  to  say  No  when  every- 
body for  centuries  has  been  saying  Yes,  and  Yes 
when  everybody  has  been  saying  No.  But  when  it 
comes  to  putting  this  principle  into  practice  we  see 
at    once    there    are    limitations.     Thus,    take    the 

284 


FUTURIST    DANCING 

Mariiietti's  lirst  example,  the  "  Aviation  "  dance. 
The  dancer  \\all  dance  on  a  big  map  (which  would 
have  pleased  the  late  Lord  Salisbury).  She  must 
be  a  continual  palpitation  of  azure  veils.  On  her 
breast  she  will  wear  a  (celluloid)  screw,  and  for  her 
hat  a  model  monoplane.  She  will  dance  before  a 
succession  of  screens,  bearing  the  announcements 
300  metres,  500  metres,  etc.  She  will  leap  over  a 
heap  of  green  stuffs  (indicating  a  mountain), 
"  Organized  noises  "  will  imitate  rain  and  wind  and 
continual  intcrrujitions  of  the  electric  light  will 
simulate  ligiitning,  while  the  dancer  will  jump 
through  hoops  of  pink  paper  (sunset)  and  blue  paper 
(night).     And  so  forth. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  lame  and  impotent  conclu- 
sion ?  The  new  dancing,  so  pompously  announced, 
proves  to  be  nothing  but  the  crude  symbolism  to  be 
seen  already  in  every  Christmas  pantomime — nay, 
in  every  village  entertainment  or  "  vicar's  treat." 
And  we  never  guessed,  when  our  aunts  took  us  to  see 
the  good  old  fun,  that  we  were  witnessing  something 
dynamic  and  motlibriste  ! 

I  turn  to  the  Sofhci.  lie  finds  the  philosophy  of 
Futurism  in  the  clown,  because  the  clown's  supreme 
wisdom  is  to  run  coimtcr  to  common  sense.  "  The 
universe  has  no  meaning  outside  the  fireworks  of 
phenomena — say  the  tricks  and  acts  and  jokes  of 
the  clown.  Your  i)roblcms,  your  systems,  are 
absurd,  dear  sirs  ;  all's  one  and  nothing  counts  save 
the  sport  of  the  imagination.     Let  us  away  with 

2»5 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

our  ergotism,  with  the  hire  of  reason,  let  us  abandon 
ourselves  entirely  to  the  frenzy  of  innovations  that 
provoke  wonder."  It  is  this  emaneipation,  adds 
the  Sofllei,  this  artifieial  creation  of  a  lyric  reality 
independent  of  the  nexus  of  natural  manifestations 
and  appearances,  this  gay  symbolism,  that  our 
ffisthctie  jjuts  forward  as  the  aim  for  the  new  artist. 
Well,  we  have  seen  how  gay  was  the  symbolism 
devised  by  the  Marinetti.  And  how  inadequate, 
how  poor  in  invention.  Dancing  that  has  to  be  eked 
out  by  labelled  screens  and  paper  hoops  and  pyramids 
of  stuffs  !  That  is  what  we  get  from  the  new  artist. 
The  old  artists  had  a  different  way  ;  when  they  had 
to  symbolize,  they  did  it  by  dancing,  without 
extraneous  aid.  When  Karsavina  symbolized  golf, 
she  required  no  "  property  ''  but  a  golf-ball.  All 
the  rest  was  the  light  fantastic  toe.  When  Genee 
symbolized  Cinderella's  kitchen  drudgerj',  she  just 
seized  a  broom  and  danced,  di\'inely,  with  it.  But 
that  was  before  the  Marinetti  made  his  grand 
discovery  that  music  is  too  nostalgic  for  dancing 
purposes  and  that  the  one  thing  needful  is  organized 
noise — as  organized  by  Luigi  Russolo.  .  .  .  No,  it 
is  no  use  trying  ;  I  remain  an  incorrigible  Pastist. 


23G 


HROSWITHA 

Whitixg  about  Hroswitha's  CallimachuSy  as 
performed  by  the  Art  Theatre,  I  touched  upon  the 
unintentionally  comic  aspect  of  a  tenth-century 
miracle  play  to  a  twentieth-century  audience. 
Naturally  this  is  not  an  aspect  of  the  matter  which 
recommends  itself  to  a  lady  who  is  about  to  publish 
a  translation  of  Hroswitha's  plays  with  a  preface 
by  a  cardinal,  and  in  a  published  letter  she  protests 
that  the  fun  which  the  Art  Theatre  got  out  of 
Callimachus  was  not  justified  by  the  text.  Let  me 
hasten  to  acquit  the  Art  Theatre  of  the  mis- 
demeanour attributed  to  it  by  Miss  Christopher  St. 
John.  There  was  nothing  intentionally  funny  in  its 
performance.  The  players  acted  their  parts  with 
all  possible  simplicity  and  sincerity.  The  smiling 
was  all  on  our  side  of  the  footlights.  But  I  said 
that  the  smile  was  "  reverent,''  because  of  the  sacred 
nature  of  the  subject-matter. 

This  opens  up  the  question  of  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  we  moderns  ought  to  approach  works  of 
"  early  "  art.  The  first  effort  of  a  critic — we  must 
all  be  agreed  about  that-  should  be  to  put  himself, 
imaginatively,  in  the  artist's  place.  He  has  to  try 
to  fhink  himself  l)aok  into  the  time,  the  place,  the 

237 


PASTICHE     AND    PREJUDICE 

circumstances  of  the   work,   and   into  the  artist's 
temperament,   intentions,  and  means  of  execution. 
We  look  at  the  Madonna  of  Cimabue  in  the  church 
of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  and  our  first  impulse  is 
to    find    her    ungainly,    uncouth,    without   spiritual 
significance.     It  is  only  by  thinking  ourselves  back 
among  the  Florentines  of  the  thirteenth  century 
that  we  can  understand  and  appreciate  Cimabue's 
appeal.     But    consider    how    dillicult — or,    rather, 
impossible — that  thinking-back  process  is.    Consider 
what  we  have  to  unlearn.     We  have  to  make  our- 
selves  as   though   we   had   never  seen   the   Sistine 
Madonna  of  Raphael  ;    mueii  more  than  that,   we 
have  mentally  to  wipe  out  six  centuries  of  human 
history.     Manifestly   it   cannot   be   done ;     we   can 
never  see  the  Cimabue  picture  as  Cimabue  himself 
saw  it  or  as  his  Florentine  contemporaries  saw  it. 
We  have  to  try  ;    but  what  we  shall  at  best  succeed 
in  attaining  is  a  palimpsest,  the  superimposition  of 
new  artistic  interpretation  on  the  old.     And  when 
we  say  that  classics  are  immortal,  we  only  mean  that 
they  are  capable  of  yielding  a  perpetual  series  of 
fresh    palimpsests,    of   being  perpetually  "  hatched 
again     and     hatched     different.''     We     cannot  see 
Dante's  Cummedia  as  Dante  or  Dante's  first  readers 
saw  it.     For  us  its  politics  are  dead  and  its  theology 
grotesque  ;   it  lives  for  us  now  by  its  spirituality,  its 
majesty,   and  the  beauty  of  its  form.     But   with 
works    that    are   not   classics,    works   that   are   not 
susceptible  of  a  perpetual  rebirth,  the  ease  is  even 

238 


HROSWITHA 

harder.  They  are  inscriptions  that  we  can  no 
longer  decipher  ;  we  cannot  think  ourselves,  for  a 
moment,  back  in  the  mind  of  the  author.  They 
have  become  for  us  curios. 

And  that  is  what  ITroswitha's  Callimachus  has 
become  :  a  curio.  How  can  we  put  ourselves  back 
in  the  mind  of  a  nun  in  the  Convent  of  Gandersheim 
in  the  age  of  Otho  the  Great  ?  I  say  "  we."  For 
nuns  perhaps  (having,  I  assume,  a  mentality  nearer 
the  tenth  century  than  the  rest  of  us)  may  take  a 
fair  shot  at  it.  So,  too,  may  cardinals,  whose  august 
mentality  I  do  not  presume  to  fathom.  But  it  is 
certain  that  common  worldly  men,  mere  average 
playgoers,  cannot  do  it. 

But,  it  will  be  objected,  arc  we  not,  or  most  of  us, 
still  Christians  ?  Are  we  not  still  capable  of  under- 
standing prayers,  miracles,  saintliness,  raising  from 
the  dead,  "  conversion,"  and  all  the  other  subject- 
matter  of  Callimachns  ?  To  be  sure  we  are  ;  hence 
my  "  reverent  '  smile.  If  Christianity  were  dead 
(or,  as  in  Swift's  ironical  pamphlet,  abolished  by  Act 
of  Parliament)  Callimachus  would  be  simply  mean- 
ingless for  us,  a  nothing,  mere  mummery.  It  is 
not  the  matter  of  the  play  that  provokes  our  smile  ; 
but  its  form.  Tiic  "  fun,"  says  Miss  St.  John,  is 
"  not  justified  by  the  text."  She  is  thinking  of  the 
matter,  abounding  in  piety  and  tending  to  edifica- 
tion ;  but  in  point  of  fact  the  language,  the  "  text  " 
— at  any  rate  in  theatrical  representation  (far  be  it 
from_mc  to  prejudice  her  forthcoming  book) — has 

239 


PASTICHK    AND    PREJUDICE 

its  comic  side.  Callimachus's  abrupt  declaration  of 
his  passion  to  Drusiana  and  the  terms  of  her  rejection 
of  him  are  botli,  to  a  modern  audience,  irresistibly 
comic.  They  are  not  meaningless,  but  they  are 
delightfully  impossible  :  they  are  love-making  as 
imagined  by  a  nun,  the  very  person  who  ex  hypotJiesi 
knows  nothing  about  it.  You  have,  in  fact,  precisely 
the  same  delicious  absurdity,  proceeding  from  an 
imagination  necessarily  uninstructed  by  experience, 
as  you  get  in  Miss  Daisy  Ashford's  book.  (Several 
critics  have  made  this  comparison.  I  am  really 
chagrined  not  to  have  thought  of  it  myself.  But  it 
should  show  Miss  St.  John  that  I  am,  at  any  rate, 
not  the  only  one  who  found  CaUimachus  comic.) 

Further,  and  quite  apart  from  the  exquisite 
naiveties  of  its  text,  the  form  of  the  play  is  so 
childlike  and  bland  as  to  be  really  funny.  The 
players,  when  not  engaged  in  the  action,  stand 
motionless  in  a  semi-circle.  Changes  of  scene  are 
indicated  by  two  performers  crossing  the  stage  in 
opposite  directions — a  genuine  cricket  "  over." 
Characters  are  understood  to  be  stricken  with  death 
when  they  composcdlj^  lie  down  on  their  backs. 
Others  trot  in  pairs  round  Drusiana's  prostrate  form 
and  you  understand  they  are  journeying  to  her 
tomb.  All  this,  of  course,  is  merely  primitive 
"  convention."  Could  we  put  ourselves  back  into 
Hroswitha's  time,  it  would  pass  unnoticed.  In  our 
own  time,  with  a  different  set  of  "  conventions,"  that 
make  some  attempt  at  imitation  of  reality,  we 
240 


HROSWITHA 

naturally  laugh  at  these  old  conventions.  We 
laugh,  but  we  are  interested  ;  our  curiosity  is  being 
catered  for,  we  like  to  see  what  the  old  conventions 
were.  The  curio,  in  short,  is  amusing  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  term. 

And  it  leaves  us  with  a  desire  to  know  more  about 
Hroswitha,  the  "  white  rose  "  of  the  tenth  century 
(if  that  be  really  the  meaning  of  her  name).  Perhaps 
the  Cardinals  preface  will  tell  us  more.  One 
remark  occurs.  It  seems  a  little  significant  that  a 
nun  should  have  written  all  her  plays  on  the  one 
theme  of  chastity.  It  must  have  been  an  obsession 
with  her,  this  virtue  to  which,  as  Renan  said, 
nature  attaches  so  little  importance.  And,  in 
hunting  her  theme,  this  nun  does  not  scruple  to 
pursue  it  to  the  strangest  places.  She  even  puts 
courtesans  upon  the  stage  and  houses  of  ill-fame. 
How  on  earth  did  the  good  lady  imagine  these  un- 
conventual  topics  ?  The  question  suggests  some 
puzzles  about  the  psychology  of  nuns.  But  one 
only  has  to  see  CaUimachtis  to  know  that  Hroswitha 
must  have  been  as  pure  as  snow,  or  as  a  white  rose, 
as  innocently  ignorant,  in  fact,  of  what  she  was 
writing  ;il)out  as  Miss  Daisy  Asiiford  when  she 
described  an  elopement. 


211 


PAGELLO 

Long  before  Madame  Sand  was  produced  at  the 
Duke  of  York's  Theatre  more  had  been  \vritten  all 
the  world  over  about  the  trip  of  George  Sand  and 
Alfred  de  Musset  to  Venice  in  1833-4  than  about 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  or  the 
campaigns  of  the  Great  War.  A  heavy  fine  should 
be  imposed  on  any  one  who  needlessly  adds  a  drop  of 
ink  to  the  vast  mass  of  controversy  that  has  raged 
round  that  subject,  and  I  promise  to  leave  the  main 
story,  which  must  be  known  to  every  adult  man  and 
woman  in  the  two  hemispheres,  severely  alone.  But 
there  is  a  subordinate  actor  in  the  story,  to  whom 
injustice,  I  think,  has  been  done  on  all  hands,  and 
whose  ease  it  would  be  an  act  of  the  merest  decency 
to  reconsider.     I  mean  Pietro  Pagello. 

His  case  was  prejudiced  from  the  first  by  the  dis- 
semination of  an  atrocious  libel.  When  a  patient 
alleges  scandalous  behaviour  between  doctor  and 
nurse,  it  is  well  to  be  sure  of  the  witness's  mental 
condition.  Now  Musset  was  suffering,  not,  as  Pagello 
politely  put  it,  from  typhoid  fever,  but  from  delirium 
tremens.  This  would  at  once  disqualify  him  as  an 
eye-witness.  But  the  fact  is  Musset  himself  never 
made  the  allegation  ;  the  story  was  spread  about  by 
242 


PAGELLO 

brother  Paul,  a  terrible  liar.  Pagcllo  had  been  called 
in  first  to  attend  not  Alfred,  but  George  herself,  for 
severe  headache.  Half  a  century  later  he  remem- 
bered that  her  lips  were  thick  and  ugly,  and  her  teeth 
discoloured  by  the  cigarettes  she  was  perpetually 
smoking ;  but  she  charmed  him  by  her  wonderfid 
eyes  :  per  gli  occhi  stupendi.  After  they  had  both 
nursed  Alfred  to  convalescence  the  occhi  stupendi 
made  short  work  with  the  young  doctor.  In  the 
common  phrase,  George  threw  herself  at  him. 
People  who  don't  study  the  facts  talk  of  the  new 
arrangement  as  though  it  were  a  betrayal ;  but 
observe  that  it  was  of  the  highest  convenience  not 
only  to  George,  but  to  Alfred.  It  enabled  the  poet 
to  get  away  alone  to  Paris  with  an  easier  conscience  ; 
it  provided  George,  compelled  to  stay  on  in  Venice 
to  complete  her  tale  of  "  copy,"'  with  a  protector. 
But  we  are  in  183i,  with  romanticism  at  its  most 
ecstatic  and  "  sublime."  So  the  convenience  of  the 
situation  is  draped  in  phrases  and  bedewed  with 
tears.  Alfred  shed  tlurn  with  enthusiasm,  while 
Pagello  swore  to  him  to  look  alter  the  happiness  of 
George.  "  II  nostro  amore  {)er  Alfredo "  was 
Pagello's  delightful  way  of  putting  it.  A  singular 
trio  !  Evidently  poor  Pagello  was  George's  slave. 
\Vhat  was  a  poor  young  Venetian  medical  gentleman 
to  do  ?  A  foreign  lady  with  occhi  stupendi  (and  a 
habit  of  writing  eight  or  nine  hours  a  day  on  end) 
handed  over  to  him,  with  tears  of  enthusiasm,  by  a 
grateful  patient  !  Anyhow,  I'agello  showed  his  sense 
248  R  ^ 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

by  removing  the  lady  to  cheaper  lodgings.  When 
Venice  grew  a  little  too  hot  he  escorted  her  on  a  trip 
to  Tirol,  taking  her  on  the  way  (such  were  the  pleas- 
ing manners  of  the  time)  to  see  his  father  !  He  was  a 
little  short  wth  mc,  says  the  son,  but  he  received 
her  with  cortesi  ospitaUta,  and  the  pair  discussed 
French  literature.  Mr.  Max  Becrbohm  should  draw 
the  picture. 

It  has  been  the  fashion  to  dismiss  Pagello  as  a  mere 
nincompoop.  But  if  he  had  been  that,  a  George 
Sand  would  not  have  cared  a  rap  for  him,  and  he 
would  have  been  terrified  by  George.  As  it  was, 
when  she  asked  him  to  take  her  back  to  Paris  he 
"  chucked  "  his  practice  and  cheerfully  parted  with 
his  pictures  and  plate  to  provide  funds  for  the 
journey.  He  was,  at  any  rate,  a  disinterested  lover  ; 
but  tlie  truth  seems  to  be  he  was  not  })assionate 
enough  for  George.  "  Pagello  is  an  angel  of  virtue," 
she  writes  to  Musset,  "  he  is  so  full  of  sensibility  and 
so  good  ...  he  surrounds  me  with  care  and  atten- 
tion. .  .  .  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  love  without 
passion.  .  .  .  Well,  for  my  part,  I  feel  the  need  to 
suffer  for  some  one.  Oh  !  why  couldn't  I  live 
between  the  two  of  you  and  make  you  happy  without 
belonging  to  either  ?  "  But  by  the  time  she  had 
reached  Paris  she  was  already  thinking  of  belonging 
to  Alfred  again,  and  "  door-stepped  "  Pagello.  Her 
Parisian  set,  of  course,  made  fun  of  him.  The  poor 
gentleman's  situation  was,  indeed,  sutticiently  awk- 
ward. But  it  is  not  true,  as  it  is  the  fashion  to  say, 
244 


PAGELLO 

that  he  was  "  sent  straight  back."  George,  who  had 
retreated  to  Nohant,  invited  him  there,  but  he  had 
the  good  sense  to  dechne.  She  was  afraid  he  might 
be  in  want  of  monej^  and  wrote  to  a  friend,  "  he  will 
never  take  it  from  a  woman,  even  as  a  loan."  She, 
at  any  rate,  knew  he  was  a  gentleman.  But  the 
Italians,  with  all  their  romantic  traditions,  are  a 
practical  people.  Finding  himself  adrift  in  Paris, 
Pagello  remembered  his  profession,  and  stayed  on  as 
long  as  he  could  to  study  surgery,  with  such  sub- 
stantial result  that  he  subsequently  became  one  of 
the  chief  surgeons  in  Italy,  and  gained  a  special 
reputation,  it  is  said,  in  lithotomy.  Thus  may  a 
fantastic  love  adventure  be  turned  to  good  account. 
I  take  my  facts  about  Pagello  from  Mme.  Wladimir 
Karenine's  "  George  Sand  "  (1899-1912),  the  one 
authentic  and  exhaustive  work  on  the  subject.  He 
died,  over  90  years  of  age,  after  the  first  two  of  her 
three  volumes  were  published,  and  what  one  likes 
most  of  all  about  him  is  that,  till  very  near  the  end 
of  his  life,  he  kept  his  mouth  tight  siiut  about  the 
great  adventure  of  his  youth.  A  mere  nincompoop 
could  not  have  done  that.  In  1881  the  Italian  Press 
happened  to  be  reviving  the  story  of  the  Venetian 
amour,  and  they  succeeded  in  getting  from  Pagello 
a  few  of  George's  letters  and  some  modest,  manly 
reminiscences.  He  had  no  piquant  scandals  to  dis- 
close, and  merely  showed,  quite  luiconsciously,  that 
he  was  far  the  most  decent  of  the  strange  three 
involved  in  the  Venetian  adventure. 

245 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

As  for  the  Pagello  of  the  new  play,  tlie  American 
dramatist  has  made  him  just  a  tame,  hopelessly 
bewildered  donkey.  He  is  provided  with  a  fierce 
Italian  sweetheart,  to  bring  him  buck  safe,  if  scolded, 
from  Paris  to  Italy.  He  lives  freely  on  other  people's 
money,  George's — when  it  isn't  Alfred's.  After  all, 
it  doesn't  matter,  for  all  the  people  of  the  play  are 
mere  travesties  of  the  originals,  turned  (in  the  pub- 
lished book  of  the  play,  though  not  at  the  Duke  of. 
York's)  into  modern  American  citizens.  Buloz  talks 
of"  boosting  "  his  subscriptions.  Alfred  says  George 
is  "  like  a  noisy  old  clock  that  won't  stop  ticking." 
Oh  dear  ! 


246 


STENDHAL 

In  reviewing  the  perlonnance  by  the  New  Shake- 
speare Company  of  King  Henry  V.  I  was  reminded 
by  one  of  Henrys  lines  at  Agincourt, 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers, 

to  speak,  it  may  have  seemed  a  trifle  incongruously, 
of  Stendlial.  But  it  was  Stendlial  who  said,  "  jc 
n'ecris  que  pour  les  happy  few  J"  No  quotation  could 
have  been  more  appropriate.  Stcndiial's  readers 
have  always  been  few,  but  they  have  been  enthusi- 
astic. In  his  lifetime  he  was  hardly  read  at  all, 
though  Balzac  gave  him  a  magnilicent  "  puff  " — so 
magnificent  that  even  Stendiuil  himself  was  taken 
aback  by  it  and  infused  a  little  irony  into  his  thanks. 
He  supposed  himself  to  be  ahead  of  his  time,  and  in 
1840  said  he  would  be  understood  somewhere  about 
1880.  It  was  rather  a  good  shot,  for  somewhere 
about  that  date  there  came  intobeing  the  fierce  tribe 
of  Stendhalians,  who  founded  the  "  Stendhal  Club  " 
and  included  in  their  numl^er  no  less  a  man  than 
M.  Paul  Bourget.  But  the  vicissitudes  of  literary 
reputations  are  as  uncertain  as  anything  in  this 
world,  and  M.  Bourget  wondered  what  would  be 
thouglit  of  Stendhal  in  another  forty  years — namely, 
in  1920.     Well,  1920  has  arrived,  as  the  years  have 

247 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

the  habit  of  doing  with  abominable  rapidity,  and 
any  one  who  likes  can  seek  for  an  answer  to  M. 
Bourget's  question.  I  will  hazard  a  guess.  I  doubt 
if  in  the  interval  there  has  been  very  much  change  in 
Stendhal's  position.  Now,  as  in  1880,  Stendhal  is 
read,  and  immoderately  loved,  by  the  "  happy  few," 
and  ignored  or  detested  by  the  rest.  But,  in  enjoying 
him,  the  happy  few  contrive  to  take  him  a  little 
less  seriously  than  did  the  Stendhal  Club.  That 
process  goes  on  with  even  greater  reputations.  Croce, 
we  are  told,  takes  Dante  more  lightly  than  has  been 
the  habit  of  Italian  critics  in  the  last  half-century. 
We  English  are  gradually  learning  to  discuss 
Shakespeare  as  a  human  being.  And  here,  pat  to  the 
occasion,  is  a  paper  on  Stendhal  in  the  Revue  de  Paris 
by  M.  Anatole  France,  which  handles  its  subject 
with  the  easy  Anatolian  grace  we  all  know  and  does, 
perhaps,  at  the  same  time  indicate  what  the  readers 
of  1920  think  of  Stendhal,  though  none  of  them 
would  express  their  thought  of  him  \vith  the  same 
charm. 

It  would  probably  occur  to  none  of  them,  for 
instance,  as  it  docs  to  Anatole  France,  to  begin  an 
appreciation  of  Stendhal  with  the  statement  that  he 
"  had  a  leg."  Modern  costume  has  abolished  this 
advantage,  but  Stendhal  lived,  at  any  rate  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  life,  in  the  knee-breeches  period, 
when  calves  were  on  exhibition.  Unluckily,  Stend- 
hal's calves  do  not  appear  in  the  portrait  prefixed  to 
the  Correspondence,  but  only  the  head,  which  is 
248 


STENDHAL 

rather  quaintly  ugly.  Quaint  ugliness  in  men  is  not 
displeasing  to  women  (or  where  would  most  of  us 
be  ?),  but  what  neer  won  fair  lady  is  faint  heart,  and 
Stendhal  was  timid.  Thus,  as  a  young  man  Stendhal 
is  said  to  have  loved  Mile.  Vietorine  Monnier  for  five 
years  before  he  spoke  to  her.  He  was  not  sure  that 
even  then  she  knew  who  he  was.  And  this  was  the 
man  who  wrote  a  treatise  "  Dc  1 'Amour  "  (a  delight- 
ful book  to  skim  through,  nevertheless),  and  preaches 
that  every  woman  can  be  captured  by  direct  assault  ! 
I  remember  once  talking  to  the  wife  of  a  popular 
novelist,  a  great  enthusiast  for  love,  about  her 
husband's  variety  and  virtuosity  on  this  subject. 
She  replied  without  enthusiasm  :  "  Yes,  in  his  books." 
On  the  same  point,  M.  France  reports  a  capital  sub 
rosd  saying  of  Renan's  : — "  Les  Europeens  font 
preuve  d'unc  deplorable  ind6cision  en  tout  ce  qui 
concerne  la  conjonotion  dcs  sexes." 

As  might  have  been  expected  from  a  wTiter  for  the 
"  happy  few,"  Stendhal  did  not  suffer  fools  gladly. 
A  man  must  have  the  social,  tiic  gregarious  spirit  for 
that,  and  Stendhal  lived  much  to  himself.  That 
being  so,  he  could  not  hope  to  escape  boredom.  An 
incurable  ennui  lurks  behind  many  of  his  pages  ;  his 
enemies  would  say  in  them.  He  even  got  bored  with 
Italy,  as  so  many  others  of  a  century  ago,  who  began 
as  enthusiastic  lovers,  got  bored.  Byron  went  to 
Greece — and  Shelley  took  to  yachting  with  the  fatal 
result  we  know — because  each  was  bored  with  Italy. 
But  Stendhal  in  his  later  years  had  to  put  up  with  it 

'J  49 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

at  Civita  Vecchia — which,  for  a  "  littery  gent  "  must 
have  been  a  deadly  dull  place  in  18 10,  and  would  not, 
I  imagine,  be  very  lively  even  now.  Indeed,  his 
existence  (after  his  early  experiences  with  the  Grand 
Army)  seems  to  have  been  quiet,  solitary,  and  slow. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  his  books,  his  MSS.,  his  letters, 
are  so  full  of  mysterious  disguises,  initials,  pseudo- 
nyms, codes,  erasures,  as  thougii  he  were  being 
watched  by  censors  and  hunted  by  spies.  It  was  a 
way  of  creating  for  himself  an  imaginary  atmosphere 
of  adventure. 

M.  France  has  some  good  things  to  say  about 
Stendhal's  style.  M.  Bourget  calls  his  prose  alge- 
braic, which  is  rather  hard.  But  there  arc  many 
ways  of  writing,  says  M.  France,  and  one  can  succeed 
at  it  perfectly  without  any  art,  just  as  one  can  be  a 
great  writer  without  correctness,  as  Henri  IV.  was  in 
his  letters  and  Saint-Simon  in  his  memoirs.  No  one 
would  read  "  Le  Rouge  et  le  Noir  "  or  "  La  Chartreuse 
de  Parme,"  as  the  Duchess  in  a  Pinero  play  said  she 
read  her  French  novel,  for  the  style.  xVnatole  France 
commits  himself  to  a  very  definite  statement.  No 
Frenchman,  he  says,  in  Stendhals  time  wrote  well, 
the  French  language  was  altogether  lost,  and  every 
author  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century 
wrote  ill,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Paul  Louis 
Courier.  "  The  disaster  to  the  language,  begun  in 
the  youth  of  Mirabeau,  increased  under  the  Revolu- 
tion, despite  those  giants  of  the  tribune,  Vergniaud, 
Saint-Just,  Robespierre,  compared  with  whom  our 

250 


STENDHAL 

orators  oi'  to-day  seem  noisy  children,  despite  Camille 
Desmoulins,  author  of  the  last  well-written  pamphlet 
France  was  to  read  ;  the  evil  was  aggravated  under 
the  Empire  and  the  Restoration  ;  it  became  a  fright- 
ful thing  in  tlie  works  of  Tliicrs  and  of  Guizot."  This, 
from  the  greatest  living  master  of  French,  is  not 
without  its  interest.  No  one  could  say  the  same 
thing  of  our  English  prose  in  the  same  period — a 
period  that  gave  us,  to  take  a  few  instances  at  random, 
Cowper's  letters  and  Byron's,  and  the  Essays  of  Elia. 
Stendhal,  then,  was  not  remarkable  for  style.  But 
one  gathers  that,  in  the  rare  occurrence  of  congenial 
society,  he  was  a  good  talker.  One  would  give  some- 
thing to  have  been  a  third  in  the  box  at  La  Scala 
when  Stendhal,  a  young  olUcer  of  Napoleon,  met  an 
old,  lanky,  melancholy  general  of  artillery — no  other 
than  Choderlos  de  Laclos,  author,  before  the  Revo- 
lution, of  "  Les  Liaisons  Dangercuses."'  Stendiial, 
as  a  child,  had  known  the  original  of  Laclos's 
infamous  Mme.  dc  Mcrtcuil,  an  original  who  appears 
to  have  been  even  worse  than  the  copy.  Some 
years  later  George  Sand,  on  her  way  to  Italy  witli 
Musset,  met  Stendhal  on  a  Rhone  steamer,  and  he 
told  her  a  story  which,  she  said,  shocked  her.  She 
docs  not  repeat  it.  One  would  really  rather  like  to 
hear  a  story  which  could  shock  George  Sand. 


JULES    LEMAlTRE 

It  was  in  the  first  week  of  August,  1914.  The 
crowd  on  the  scafront  was  outwardly  as  gay  as  ever, 
only  buying  up  the  evening  papers  with  a  little  more 
eagerness  than  usual  to  read  the  exeiting  news  from 
Belgium.  We  had  not  had  time  to  realize  what  war 
meant.  Some  one  held  out  a  paper  to  me  and  said, 
quite  casually,  "  I  see  Lemaitre's  dead."  This  event 
seemed  to  me  for  the  moment  bigger  than  the  war 
itself.  At  any  rate  it  came  more  intimately  home  to 
me.  The  world  in  an  uproar,  nations  toppling  to 
ruin,  millions  of  men  in  arms — these  are  only  vague 
mental  pictures.  They  disquiet  the  imagination, 
but  are  not  to  be  realized  by  it.  The  death  of  your 
favourite  author,  the  spiritual  companion  and  solace 
of  half  a  lifetime,  is  of  an  infmitcly  sharper  reality, 
and  you  feel  it  as  though  it  were  a  physical  pang. 

Lcmaitre  died  where,  whenever  he  could,  he  had 
lived,  at  Tavcrs  in  the  Loiret,  the  heart  of  France. 
He  was  always  writing  about  Tavcrs,  though  he 
never  named  it  by  its  name.  In  describing  the  far- 
off  cruises  of  Loti  and  the  indefatigable  touristry  of 
Bourget  he  says : — "  There  is  somewhere  a  big 
orchard  that  goes  down  to  a  brook  edged  with 
willows  and  poplars.      It  is  for  me  the  most  beauti- 

252 


JULES    LEMAtTRE 

ful  landscape  in  Lhc  world,  lor  i  love  it,  and  it  knows 
me."  To  understand  Lemaitre  you  must  keep  that 
little  vignette  affectionately  in  your  mind,  as  he  did. 
M.  Henry  Bordeaux,  in  his  charming  little  mono- 
graph "  Jules  Lemaitre,"  rightly  insists  upon 
Lemaitre's  passionate  love  for  his  native  country- 
side. But  you  never  can  tell ;  his  insistence  seems 
only  to  have  bored  a  recent  reviewer  of  the  book. 
"  The  insistence  on  Lemaitre's  patriotism  and  on 
his  being  '  I'homme  de  sa  terre  '  is  a  little  wearying  ; 
of  course  he  was  '  I'homme  de  sa  terre,'  but  he  was 
many  other  things,  or  we  should  never  have  heard 
of  him."  As  who  should  say,  of  course  Cyrano  had 
a  nose,  but  he  had  many  other  things,  or  we  should 
never  have  heard  of  him.  But  Cyrano's  nose  was 
a  conspicuous  feature,  and,  if  we  arc  not  told  of  it, 
we  shall  not  fully  understand  Cyrano.  So  with 
Lemaitre's  love  of  his  countryside  by  the  Loire. 

It  made  him,  to  begin  with,  an  incorrigible  stay- 
at-home.  In  this,  as  in  so  many  other  things,  he 
was  a  typical  Frenchman.  We  English,  born 
roaincrs  as  we  are,  take  for  granted  the  educative 
influence  of  travel.  Places  and  people,  we  know  by 
elementary  experience,  arc  only  to  be  realized  by 
being  seen  on  the  sj)ot.  Lemaitre  thought  otherwise. 
Why,  he  asked,  need  I  go  to  England  ?  I  can  get  all 
England  out  of  Dickens  and  George  Eliot  and  my 
friend  Bourget's  "  Impressions  de  Voyage."  And 
then  he  drew  a  picture  of  England,  as  he  confidciilly 
believed  it  to  be,  that  is  about  as  "  like  it  "  as,  say, 
2.'53 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

the  average  untra veiled  Englishman" s  notion  of 
Tavers.  He  was  never  tired  of  quoting  a  passage  of 
the  "  Imitation  '"  about  the  variety  of  changing  sky 
and  scene.  But  a  cloistered  monk  is  not  exactly  an 
authority  on  this  subject. 

Again,  the  fact  that  Lcmaitrc  was  "  Ihomme  de 
sa  terre  "  is  of  vital  literary  importance  ;  it  affected 
not  only  the  spirit,  but  the  actual  direction  of  his 
criticism.  It  inclined  him  to  ignore  or  to  misappre- 
hend those  features  in  a  foreign  author  that  pre- 
cisely marked  how  he  also,  in  his  turn,  was  the  man 
of  his  countryside,  and  that  very  different  from  tiie 
banks  of  the  Loire.  Some  of  his  comments  on  Shake- 
speare, for  instance,  are  of  a  Gallicism  almost  Vol- 
tairean.  And  it  fostered  illusions  like  that  which 
possessed  him  about  the  "  Northern  literatures  " — 
Ibsen,  Hauptmann,  Strindberg,  and  so  forth — that 
they  were  mere  belated  imitators  of  the  French 
romantics.  The  fact  that  Lcmaitrc  was  essentially 
a  man  of  his  province  involved  the  fact  that  his 
criticism  now  and  then  was  also  provincial. 

Indeed,  his  very  provincialism  heightened  his 
enjoyment  of  Paris  and  sharpened  his  sense  of 
Parisianism.  Things  which  the  born  Parisian  takes 
for  granted  were  delightful  novelties  for  him,  chal- 
lenging observation  and  analysis.  "  11  est,"  said 
Degas,  "  toujours  bien  content  d'etre  k  Paris."  He 
was  "  bien  content  "  because  he  was  "  the  young 
man  from  the  country,"  the  man  from  Tavers.  The 
phenomenon  is  familiar  all  the  world  over. 
251 


JULES    LEMAfTRE 

Further,  tlie  fact  that  Lemaitre  remained 
"  rhomme  de  sa  terre,"  still  getting  his  clothes 
from  the  village  tailor,  never  so  much  at  home  as 
among  the  farmers,  country  schoolmasters,  and 
peasants  he  had  known  from  his  infancy,  gives  a 
quite  peculiar  saAour  to  his  remarks  on  "  Ic  monde  " 
— the  great  fashionable  scene,  which  he  describes 
and  analyses,  to  be  sure,  as  a  philosojihcr,  but  as  a 
philosopher  who  is,  consciously  and  indeed  defiantly, 
an  "  outsider." 

These  arc  all  integral  parts  of  Lemaitrc's  critical 
individuality.  Without  them  he  would  have  been 
another  man  altogether — a  point  so  obvious  to  all 
lovers  of  Lemaitre  that  it  woidd  never  have  occurred 
to  me  to  mention  it,  had  it  not  been  for  our  reviewer's 
weariness  of  being  reminded  that  he  was  "  I'hommc 
de  sa  terre."  Evidently  the  reviewer  cannot  for- 
give Lemaitre  for  his  treatment  of  the  "  decadents  " 
and  the  "  symbolistes,"  and  other  cranks.  "  Think 
of  the  people  Lemaitre  missed."  The  peoi)le  in- 
clude, it  seems,  Moreas,  Laforgue,  Samain,  and  Rim- 
baud. Well,  after  thinking  of  these  people,  many  of 
us  will  be  resigned  to  "  missing  "  them  with  Lemaitre. 

It  is  odd  that  the  reviewer,  while  hunting  for 
objections  to  Lemaitrc's  criticism,  as  criticism, 
should  have  "  missed  "  the  really  valid  one — that 
it  is  often  not  so  much  critical  as  *'  high  fantastical." 
Lemaitre  was  apt  to  be  carried  away  by  his  imagina- 
tion, and  to  run  through  a  varied  assortment  of 
comparisons,  associations,  and  parallels  that  coloured 

255 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

rather  than  cleared  the  issue.  The  rigorist  Croce 
has,  in  passing,  hiid  his  finger  upon  this.  He  quotes 
Lemaitre  on  Corncille.  Polyeucte,  says  the  critic, 
recalls  at  once  "  St.  Paul,  Huss,  Calvin,  and  Prince 
Kropotkine,"  and  awakes  "  the  same  curiosity  as  a 
Russian  Nihilist,  of  the  kind  to  be  seen  in  Paris  in 
bygone  years,  in  some  brasserie  ...  of  whom  the 
whisper  Avent  round  that  at  St.  Petersburg  he  had 
killed  a  general  or  a  prefect  of  police."  Croce  dis- 
misses this  sort  of  thing  as  ncami  di  fantasia,  and 
certainly,  from  the  point  of  view  of  strict  criticism, 
it  is  a  weakness  of  Lemaitre's. 

After  all,  however  (as  the  counsel  in  "  Pickwick  " 
pleaded  about  something  else),  it  is  an  amiable 
weakness  ;  it  makes  him  such  incomparably  good 
reading  !  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  reopen  the 
old  stupid,  stale  controversy  about  "  impressionist  " 
and  "  judicial  "  criticism  ;  but  it  is  obvious  that  the 
one  sort  does  explicitly  acknowledge  and  glory  in 
what  is  implicit  in  the  other — the  individual  tem- 
perament and  talent  of  the  critic  himself.  If  the 
"  impressionist  "  who  gives  free  play  to  his  tem- 
perament is  apt  sometimes  to  get  out  of  bounds — 
to  be  substituting  ricami  di  fantasia  for  strict 
analysis — he  may  be  all  the  more  stinnilating  to  the 
reader.  He  may  be  giving  the  reader  not  scrupu- 
lous criticism,  but  something  better.  It  all  depends, 
of  course,  on  the  temperament  and  the  talent. 
Lemaitre's  ricami  di  fantasia  are  part,  if  not  the 
best  part,  of  his  charm. 

256 


JANE    AUSTEN 

The  amusing  parlour-gamc  of  Jane  Austen 
topography  is  always  being  played  somewhere.  A 
few  years  ago  there  was  a  correspondence  in  the 
Literary  Supplement  about  the  precise  position  of 
Emma's  Highbury  on  the  map.  Some  Austenites 
voted  for  Esher,  others  for  Cobham,  others  again 
for  Bookham.  There  has  been  another  corre- 
spondence about  Mansfield  Park.  Lady  Vaux  of 
Harrowden  "  identifies  "  it  with  Easton  Neston, 
near  Towcester.  Sir  Francis  Darwin  and  the 
Master  of  Downing  arc  for  Easton  in  Huntingdon- 
shire. People  liave  consulted  Paterson's  Roads 
about  it.  Mr.  Mackinnon,  K.C.,  points  out  that  it 
must  have  been  about  four  miles  north  of  North- 
ampton. But  I  like  him  liest  when  he  says,  "  I 
do  not  suppose  any  actual  park  was  in  Jane  Austen's 
mind."  Brigadier,  vous  avez  raison !  I  do  not 
suppose  any  actual  place  was  in  Jane  Austen's  mind 
when  she  assigned  her  personages  a  home  or  a 
lodging.  You  might  as  well  try  to  fix  the  number 
of  the  house  in  Graccehurch  Street  where  Elizabeth's 
uncle  lived.  Arc  we  not  shown  the  "  real  "  Old 
Curiosity  Shop  ?     And  the  "  real  "  Bleak  House  ? 

rv-  257  s 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

And    Juliets    tomb    at   Verona*     And    the    exact 
point  of  the  Cobb  where  Louisa  Musgrove  fell  ? 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  Jane  Austen  lends  herself 
more  readily  than  most  \vriters  to  this  topographical 
pamc.     She  was  very  fond  of  topographical  colour, 
giving  not  only  real  place-names  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  fictitious  homes,  but  exact  distances  in 
miles.     It  was  so  many  miles  from  Highbury  to 
Kingston  market-place,  and  so  many  to  Box  Hill. 
Yet  she  was  always  vague  about  the  exact  spot  from 
which  these  distances  were  calculated.     For  there 
her  imagination  had  its  home,   it  was  her  private 
Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices  ;   she  wanted  a  free  hand 
there,  unhampered  by  maps,  road  books,  and  other 
intrusions  from  the  actual  world.     In  fact,  she  did 
with    ical   places   just   what   Scott,    say,    did    with 
historical     people,     kept    them     to    surround     the 
imaginary  centre  of  the  tale.     You  can  "  identify  " 
Charles    Edward,    but    not    Waverlcy.     You    can 
"  identify  "  Nottingham,  but  not  Mansfield  Park. 

It  is  a  mercy  that  Jane  Austen  never  describes 
houses — never  descril^cs  them,  I  mean,  with  the 
minute  (and  tedious)  particularity  of  a  Balzac — or 
the  topographical  game  would  have  been  supple- 
mented by  an  architectural  one,  and  we  should  have 
had  the  "  real  '"  Mansfield  Park  })ointed  out  to  us 
from  its  description,  like  Hawthorne's  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables.  Indeed,  she  never,  in  the  modern 
sense,  describes  any  tiling,  never  indulges  in  descrip- 
tion lor  its  own  sake.  She  never  even  expatiated  on 
258 


JANE    AUSTEN 

the  beauties  of  nature,  taking  them  for  granted  and, 
indeed,  on  at  least  one  famous  occasion — when 
strawberries  were  bcinjj  picked  while  the  apple  trees 
were  still  in  bloom  at  DonwcU  Abbey — ratiicr  mixing 
them  up.  Her  descriptions  always  had  a  practical 
purpose.  If  it  rained  in  Bath,  it  was  in  order  that 
Anne  might,  or  might  not,  meet  Captain  Went  worth. 
We  know  that  Sir  Thomas's  "  own  dear  room  "  at 
Mansfield  Park  was  next  to  the  billiard-room, 
because  the  novelist  wanted  us  to  know  how  he 
came  plump  upon  the  ranting  Mr.  Yates.  But  that 
detail,  thank  goodness,  won't  enable  us  to  "  identify  " 
Mansfield  Park. 

Doesn't  it  argue  a  rather  matter-of-fact  frame  of 
mind — I  say  it  with  all  respect  to  the  correspondents 
of  the  Literary  Supplement — this  persistent  tendency 
to  "  identify  "  the  imaginary  with  the  actual,  the 
geographical,  the  historical  ?  There  is  a  notable 
instance  of  it  in  the  Letters  of  Henry  James.  The 
novelist  had  described  in  "  The  Bostonians  ''  a 
certain  veteran  philanthropist,  "  Miss  Birdseye." 
Forthwith  all  Boston  identified  the  imaginary  Miss 
Birdseye  with  a  real  Miss  Peabody.  "  I  am  quite 
appalled,"  writes  Henry  James  to  iiis  brother 
William,  "  by  your  note  in  which  you  assault  me  on 
the  subject  of  my  having  painted  a  '  portrait  from 
life  '  of  Miss  Peabody  !  I  was  in  some  measure 
prepared  for  it  l)y  Lowell's  (as  I  found  the  other 
day)  taking  it  for  granted  that  she  had  been  my 
model,  and  an  allusion  to  the  same  effect  in  a  note 
259  s  2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

from  aunt  Kate.  Still,  I  didn't  expect  the  charge 
to  come  from  you.  I  hold  that  I  have  done  nothing 
to  deserve  it.  .  .  .  Miss  Birdseye  was  conceived 
entirely  from  my  moral  consciousness,  like  every 
other  person  I  have  ever  drawn."  It  is  odd  that  a 
man  like  William  James,  a  professed  student  of  the 
human  mind  and  its  workings,  should  have  made 
such  a  mistake.  I  remember  a  saying  attributed, 
years  ago,  to  Jowett  about  the  two  brothers  : 
one,  he  remarked,  was  a  writer  of  fiction  and  the 
other  a  psychologist,  and  the  fiction  was  all  psy- 
chology and  the  psychology  all  fiction.  Anyhow,  I 
think  if  any  one  had  written  to  Jane  Austen  to  tax 
her  with  Highbury  being  Eshcr  or  Mansfield  Park 
Easton  Ncston,  she  would  have  been  able  to  rej)ly 
that  they  were  conceived  entirely  from  her  moral 
consciousness.  And  I  fancy  she  would  liavc  smiled 
at  her  little  trick  of  giving  the  exact  mileage  from 
her  imaginary  centre  to  real  places  having  "  sold  " 
so  many  worthy  people.  Very  likely  she  would 
have  brought  the  topographical  game  into  the 
Hartfield  family  circle,  as  a  suitable  alternative  for 
Mr.  FJton's  enigmas,  ciiaradcs,  conundrums,  and 
polite  puzzles,  or  for  Mr.  Woodhouscs  "  Kitty,  a 
fair  but  frozen  maid,"  which  made  him  think  of 
poor  Isabella — who  was  very  near  being  christened 
Catherine,  after  her  grandmanuna. 

The  truth,  surely,  is  that  this  place-hunting,  this 
seeking  to  "  identify  "  the  imaginary  with  the  actual 
map-marked    spot,    is    only    n    part    of   the    larger 
260 


JANE    AUSTEN 

misconception  of  imaginative  work — the  miscon- 
ception which  leads  to  a  perpetual  search  for  the 
"  originals  "  of  an  author's  personages,  especially 
when  these  personages  have  a  full,  vivid  life  of  their 
own.  Jane  Austen  has  often  been  compared  to 
Shakesj^care,  ever  since  Macaulay  set  the  fashion. 
Well,  it  is  naturally  upon  ShakesiDcare  that  this 
misconception  has  wreaked  its  worst.  Commen- 
tators have  gravely  presented  us  with  the  "  original  " 
of  Falstaff,  of  Sir  Toby  Belch,  of  Dogberry — nay, 
of  lago.  Surely,  the  only  "  originals  "  of  these 
people  were  Shakespeare  himself  ?  What  were  they 
but  certain  Shakespearean  moods,  humours,  intimate 
experiences,  temptations  felt,  but  resisted,  impulses 
controlled  in  actual  life  but  allowed  free  play  in 
imaginative  reverie  ?  No  one  that  I  know  of  has 
been  foolish  enough  to  charge  Jane  Austen  with 
''  copying "'  any  of  her  characters  from  actual 
individuals,  but,  if  you  are  in  quest  of  "  identifica- 
tions," is  it  not  possible  to  "  identify  "  many  of 
them,  the  women  at  any  rate — for,  of  course,  her 
women  bear  the  stamp  of  authentic  reality  much 
more  plainly  than  her  men — is  it  not  possible  to 
identify  them  with  sides,  tendencies,  moods  of  Jane 
Austen  herself  ?  Here,  I  know,  I  am  at  variance 
with  a  distinguished  authority,  from  whom  it  is 
always  rash  to  differ.  Professor  Raleigh  says  : — 
"  Sympathy  with  her  characters  she  frequently 
has,  identity  never.  Not  in  the  high-spirited  Eliza- 
beth Bennet,  iiol  in  that  sturdy  young  patrician 
261 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Emma,  not  even  in  Anne  Elliot  of  '  Persuasion,'  is 
the  real  Jane  Austen  to  be  found.  She  stands  for 
ever  aloof."  Pass,  for  Emma  and  Elizabeth  !  But 
the  "  even  "  in  the  case  of  Anne  gives  me  courage. 
We  are  not,  of  course,  talking  of  identity  in  regard 
to  external  circumstances.  Jane  Austen  was  not 
the  daughter  of  a  Somersetshire  baronet  and  did  not 
marry  a  captain  in  the  navy.  But  that  Jane  only 
"  sympathized  "  -svith  the  heart  and  mind  of  Anne 
Elliot  is  to  my  thinking  absurdly  short  of  the  truth. 
That  the  adventures  of  Aime's  soul,  her  heart- 
beatings,  misgivings  and  intimate  reassurances  about 
Wentworth's  feeling  for  her  had  been  Jane  Austen's 
own  is  to  me  as  certain  as  though  we  had  the  con- 
fession under  her  own  hand  and  seal.  The  woman 
who  drew  Anne's  timid,  doubting,  wondering  love 
must  have  been  in  love  herself  and  in  that  way. 
One  short  sentence  settles  that  for  me.  The  con- 
sciousness of  love  disposes  Anne  ''  to  pity  every  one, 
as  being  less  happy  than  herself."  What  lover  does 
not  know  that  secret  feeling  ?  And  if  he  had  never 
loved,  would  he  have  guessed  it  by  "  sympathy  "  ? 
(You  will  lind,  by  the  way,  the  very  same  secret 
divulged  by  Balzac  in  one  of  his  love-letters  to 
Mme.  Hanska — among  the  feelings  she  inspires  him 
with  is  "  I  know  not  what  disdain  in  contemplating 
other  men.")  In  the  face  of  this,  what  need  to  go 
ransacking  Jane  Austen's  Letters  or  Memoir  for 
evidence  that  she  had  a  love  affair  ?  No,  it  is 
because  there  is   most   of  Jane   Austen's  spiritual 

2G2 


JANE    AUSTEN 

"  identity  "  in  Anne  that  "  Persuasion  "  is  the 
sweetest,  tendercst,  and  truest  of  her  books.  I 
apolof^ize  for  having  wandered  from  Mansfield  Park 
and  Easton  Neston  and  the  other  engaging  futihties 
of  the  parlour  game. 


208 


T.    W.    ROBERTSON 

Fifty  years  ago  to-morrow  (February  3rd,  1871) 
died  Thomas  William  Robertson,  a  great  reformer  of 
the  English  drama  in  liis  day,  but  now,  like  so  many 
other  reformers,  little  more  than  a  name.  His  plays 
have  ceased  to  hold  the  stage.  Very  few  of  them 
still  allow  themselves  to  be  read.  To-day  their  matter 
seems,  for  the  most  part,  poor,  thin,  trivial,  and  their 
form  somewhat  naive.  "  Robertsonian'"  has  become 
for  the  present  generation  a  meaningless  epithet,  and 
"  teacup  and  saucer  school  "  an  empty  gibe.  Even 
within  a  few  years  of  Robertson's  death  George 
Meredith  could  only  say  of  him  :  "  In  a  review  of 
our  modern  comedies,  those  of  the  late  Mr.  Robertson 
would  deserve  honourable  mention."  As  the  old 
tag  says,  times  change  and  we  in  them.  Robertson 
is  now  a  "  back  number."  His  comedies  are  not 
classics,  for  classics  are  live  things  ;  they  are  merely 
historical  documents.  Yet  you  have  only  to  turn  to 
such  a  record  as  '*  The  Bancrofts'  Recollections  "  to 
see  how  live  these  comedies  once  were,  how  stimu- 
lating to  their  time,  how  enthusiastically  they  were 
hailed  as  a  new  ])irth,  a  new  portent,  a  new  art. 
Indeed,  for  my  part,  when  I  read  the  glowing  eulogies 
264 


T.    W.    ROBERTSON 

of  John  Oxenford  and  Tom  Taylor  and  the  other 
critics  of  that  time  I  am  hlled  with  something  Uke 
dismay.  All  that  warm  (and  rather  wordy — it  was 
the  way  of  the  "sixties)  appreciation  gone  dead  and 
cold  !  I  wonder  how  many  of  our  own  judgments 
will  stand  the  test  of  fifty  years.     Br — r — r  ! 

Well,  to  understand  Robertson's  success,  we  have 
to  think  ourselves  back  into  his  time.  We  have  to 
ignore  what  followed  him  and  to  see  what  he  dis- 
placed. Up  to  his  date  the  theatre,  under  the  great 
French  influence  of  the  thirties,  still  remained 
romantic.  But  that  influence  was  wearing  out.  A 
new  influence  was  making  itself  felt  in  France, 
through  the  dialectics  of  Dumas  fits  and  Augier's 
commonsense,  though  the  new  influence  still  bore 
trace  of  the  old  romanticism,  as  we  can  see  at  least 
to-day.  La  Dame  aux  Camelias,  so  romantic  to-day, 
was  greeted  in  1855  as  a  masterpiece  of  realism  ! 
And  it  wan  comparatively  realistic,  realistic  for  its 
time.  But  the  Englisii  theatre,  a  second-hand 
theatre,  still  stuck  to  the  old  French  romantic 
tradition.  It  lived  largely  on  adaptations  from 
Scribe.  Robertson  himself  adajjtcd  a  Scribe  play 
(and  not  a  bad  one),  Bataille  de  Dames.  lie  had, 
however,  come  under  the  newer,  the  realistic,  or 
romantico-realistic  indueiiee.  lie  a(la|)ted  Augier's 
UAienturii're.  Tom  Stylus's  |)ij)e  in  the  liallroom 
(in  Society)  had  previously  been  dr()])ped  l)y  (iiboyer 
in  Lcs  Ejjronies.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
new  French  reaction  had  a  gooil  ileal  to  do  with  the 

26fi 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Robertsonian  reaction,  certainly  as  mucli  as  the 
influence  of  Thackeray  to  which  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
traces  it. 

But  I  must  let  Sir  Arthur  speak  for  himself.  In 
a  letter  in  which  he  has  been  so  good  as  to  remind 
me  of  to-morrow's  date  he  says  : — 

"  I  look  upon  Robertson  as  a  genius.  Not  that 
he  ^vrote  anything  very  profound,  or  anything  very 
witty,  but  because,  at  a  time  when  the  English 
stage  had  sunk  to  even  a  lower  ebb  than  it  is  usually 
credited  with  reaching  ;  when  the  theatres  stank  of 
stale  gas  and  orange-peel  and  the  higher  drama  was 
represented  mainly  by  adaptations  from  Scribe  by 
Leicester  Buckingliam  ;  lie  had  the  vision  to  sec  that 
a  new  public  could  be  created,  and  an  old  and  jaded 
one  refreshed,  by  invoking  for  dramatic  purposes  the 
spirit,  and  using  some  part  of  the  method,  of 
Thackeray." 

This  is  admirable,  and  I  only  wish  our  dramatists 
would  more  often  be  tempted  into  the  region  of 
dramatic  criticism.  ^\11  the  same  I  confess  that 
(after  going  through  all  Robertson's  plays)  it  seems 
to  me  to  overrate  the  Thackerayan  influence.  Tiierc 
is  a  little  sentimental  cynicism  in  Robertson  and 
there  is  much  in  Thackeray.  There  is  a  tipsy  old 
reprobate  in  Pendennis  and  there  is  another  in  Caste. 
Tom  Stylus  helped  to  found  a  newspaper  and  so  did 
George  Warrington.  Esther  D'Alroy  tried  vainly 
to  buckle  on  her  husband's  sword-belt  when  he  was 
ordered   on   service,   and   Amelia   Osborne    hovered 

2GG 


T.    W.    ROBERTSON 

helplessly  about  her  husband  with  his  red  sash  on 
the  eve  of  Waterloo.  But  such  matters  as  these 
are  common  property,  communia,  and  the  artist's 
business,  which  Horace  said  was  so  difficult,  is 
proprie  comiminia  dicere,  to  give  them  an  individual 
turn.  Drunkenness  apart  I  dont  think  Ecclcs  is  a 
bit  like  Costigan.  As  to  the  Thackerayan  spirit, 
would  that  Robertson  had  "  invoked  "  it  !  His 
plays  might  then  be  classics  still,  as  Thackeray  is, 
instead  of  merely  documents. 

If  we  are  to  connect  Robertson  with  some  typical 
Victorian  novelist,  I  would  myself,  with  all  deference 
to  Sir  Arthur,  suggest  Trollope.  His  young  women, 
his  Naomi  Tighcs  and  Bellas,  his  Polly  and  Esther 
Eccles,  strike  me  as  eminently  Trollopean.  There 
are  traces  of  Mrs.  Proudie  in  both  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  and 
Lady  Ptarmigant.  But,  probably,  these  also  are 
only  instances  of  communia.  Probably  the  young 
ladies  (and,  for  all  I  know,  the  old  ones,  too)  were 
real  types  of  the  'sixties,  as  we  see  them  in  Leech's 
drawings.  Bless  tiicir  sweet  baby-faces  and  their 
simple  hearts  and  their  pork-pie  hats  ! 

The  Robcrtsonian  way  is  often  spoken  of  as  a 
"  return  to  nature."  It  is,  in  fact,  a  common  eulogy 
of  most  reactions  in  art.  "  Don  Quixote  "  was  a 
return  to  nature,  compared  with  the  romances  of 
chivalry,  and  "  Tom  Jones  "'  was  a  return  to  nature, 
compared  with  "  Don  Quixote."  The  world  gradually 
changes  its  point  of  view  and  sees  the  facts  of  life 
in  a  new  light.  Artists  change  with  the  rest  of  the 
'JG7 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

world,  and  give  expression  to  the  new  vision.  They 
arc  hailed  as  reformers  until  the  next  reformation  ; 
they  seem  to  have  returned  to  nature,  until  the 
worlds  view  of  "  nature  "  again  changes.  I  think, 
as  I  have  said,  that  Robertson's  work  is  to  be  related 
to  the  general  anti-romantic  reaction  that  started 
in  France  in  mid-nineteenth  century.  But  all 
reactions  keep  something  of  what  they  react  against, 
and  Robertsons  reaction  retains  a  good  deal  of 
romance.  School  is  as  romantic  as  the  German 
Cinderella-story,  on  which  it  was  founded.  The 
central  situation  of  Caste — the  return  home  of  the 
iuisband  given  up  for  dead — is  essentially  romantic, 
not  a  jot  less  romantic  than  in  Lajoiefait  peur.  The 
scenes  at  the  "  Owls  Roost  "  in  Society,  applauded 
for  their  daring  realism,  are  realistic  presentations 
of  the  last  stronghold  of  the  romantic  Murger 
tradition,  literary  "  Bohemia."  Robertson's  dia- 
logue was  often  the  high-flown  lingo  of  the  old 
romance.  (In  dialogue  we  have  "  returned  to 
nature  "  several  times  over  since  his  day.)  But 
more  often  it  was  not.  He  astonished  and  delighted 
his  contemporaries  by  making  many  of  his  people 
speak  in  the  theatre  as  they  spoke  out  of  it.  He 
invented  sentimental  situations  that  were  charming 
then  and  would  be  charming  now — -lovx-passages  in 
London  squares  and  over  milk-jugs  in  the  moonlight. 
He  had  been  an  actor  and  a  stage  manager  and  knew 
how  to  make  the  very  most  of  stage  resources.  Take 
the  scene  of  Georges  return  in  Caste.  There  is  a 
208 


T.    W.    ROBERTSON 

cry  of  "  milkaow  '"  and  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Come 
in/"  cries  Polly  to  the  milkman — and  in  walks  with 
the  milk-can  one  risen  from  the  dead  !  This  thrilling 
coitp  de  theatre  is  followed,  however,  by  something 
much  better,  the  pathetic  scenes  of  Polly's  hysterical 
joy  and  her  tender  artifice  in  breaking  the  news  to 
Esther.  I  confess  that  I  cannot  read  these  scenes 
without  tears.  There  was  a  quality  of  freshness  and 
delicate  simplicity  in  Robertsons  work  at  its  best 
that  was  a  true  "  return  to  nature."  No  need,  is 
there  ?  to  speak  of  the  luck  his  work  had  in  finding 
such  interpreters  as  the  Bancrofts  and  their  company 
or  of  the  luck  the  actors  had  in  finding  the  work  to 
interpret — the  Bancrofts  themselves  have  already 
told  that  tale.  But  it  all  happened  half  a  century 
ago  and  I  suppose  we  are  not  to  expect  a  future 
Robertson  re\ival.  The  ])ast  is  past.  Life  is 
perpetual  change.  The  more  reason  for  not  neg- 
lecting occasions  of  pious  commemoration.  Let  us, 
then,  give  a  friendly  thought  to  "  Tom  "  Robertson 
to-morrow. 


•jno 


VERSATILITY 

Now  that  the  Literary  Supplement  costs  6d.,  one 
feels  entitled  to  examine  one's  relation  to  it  with  a 
certain  sense  of  solemnity.  But  I  well  know  what 
mine  is,  before  examination.  Even  when  it  cost  3rf., 
my  relation  to  it  was  always  one  of  weekly  disconcert- 
ment. It  revealed  to  me  so  many  things  I  didn't 
know  and  never  should  know,  yet  known  presumably 
to  some  other  reader.  Now  omniscience  is  derided 
as  a  "  foible,"  but  why  should  one  be  ashamed  to 
confess  it  as  an  ideal  ?  Frankly,  I  envy  the  man 
who  was  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be  not  one  but 
all  mankind's  epitome.  He  must  have  got  more  fun 
out  of  life  than  your  profound  specialist.  It  is  to 
give  this  various  reader  this  variety  of  fun  that  (I 
surmise,  but  the  editor  will  know  lor  certain)  the 
Supplement  exists.  But  for  me,  imperfectly  various, 
it  means  something  bordering  on  despair.  I  suppose 
other  readers  are  more  sensible,  and  just  take  what 
suits  them,  leaving  the  rest.  But  I  simply  hate 
leaving  anything.  Take  the  ten  columns  modestly 
headed  "  New  Books  and  Reprints."  What  a  world 
of  imknown  topics  and  alien  ideas  and  unfathomable 
theories  about  everything  this  simple  title  covers  I 
270 


VERSATILITY 

Is  there  any  reader  whose  intellectual  equipment 
includes  at  once  the  biograj^hy  of  Absalom  Watkin, 
of  Manchester,  the  Indian  Trade  Inquiry  Reports  on 
Hides  and  Skins,  an  elementary  knowledge  of  the 
Bengali  language,  and  the  particular  philosophy  of 
mysticism  entertained  by  Mr.  Watkin  (not  Absalom, 
but  another)  ?  Mine  doesn't — and  there's  the  pang, 
for  each  and  all  these  subjects,  simply  because  they 
are  there,  staring  me  in  the  face,  the  face  of  an  abso- 
lutely blank  mind  about  them,  excite  my  intellectual 
curiosity.  I  should  like  to  know  all  about  ergato- 
cracy — merely  on  the  strength  of  its  alluring  name — 
and  the  true  story,  from  the  Franciscan  point  of 
view,  of  the  Franciscans  and  the  Protestant  Revolu- 
tion in  England,  and  Lord  Grey's  reminiscences  of 
intercourse  with  Mr.  Roosevelt,  and  the  history  of 
the  Assyrian  "  millet  "  in  the  great  war,  and  what  is 
meant  by  the  "  Free  Catholic  '  tendency  in  the 
Nonconformist  Churches.  Yet  it  is  fairly  certain 
that  I  shall  have  to  do  without  any  knowledge  of 
most,  if  not  all,  of  these  matters  which  presumably 
engage  the  enlightened  interest  of  some  other 
readers. 

That  is  why  I  say  the  Supplement  disconcerts  me 
every  week.  It  makes  me  feel  ignorant  and,  what 
is  worse,  lonely,  cut  off  from  so  many  lumian 
sympathies,  cold  to  enthusiasms  that  arc  agitating 
other  breasts,  isolated  in  a  crowd  who,  for  all  I  know, 
may  be  banding  themselves  against  mc  with  the 
secret  password  "  crgatocracy,"  an  uninitiated 
271 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

stranger  among  the  friends  of  Mr.  Absalom  Watkin 
of  Manchester.  Indeed,  unHke  ''  the  master  of  this 
college,"  I  am  so  far  from  feeling  that  "  what  I  don't 
know  isn't  knowledge  "  as  to  find  it  the  one  sort  of 
knowledge  I  iteh  to  ]iossess  and  suppose  myself  to 
have  lost  a  golden  opportunity  in  missing.  There 
are  strong  men  about,  I  am  aware,  who  say  they 
don't  care.  They  profess  themselves  content  with 
knowing  a  few  things  thoroughly,  with  their  own 
little  set  of  enthusiasms,  and  repeat  proverbs  about 
jacks  of  all  trades.  I  respect  these  sturdy  men,  but 
all  the  time  my  heart  goes  out  to  the  other  kind,  the 
men  of  versatility,  the  men  whose  aim  is  to  under- 
stand everything,  to  sympathize  with  every  human 
emotion,  to  k'a\e  no  corner  of  experience  unexplored. 
And  some  such  aim  as  this  is  indispensable  for  the 
critic,  whose  business  is  primarily  to  imderstand. 
To  understand  what  he  criticizes  he  has  to  begin  by 
putting  himself  in  its  author's  place  and  standing 
at  his  point  of  view — to  take  on,  in  short,  in  turn, 
innumerable  other  personalities,  temperaments,  and 
tastes  than  his  own.  Other  men  may,  but  a  critic 
must,  be  versatile.  He  must  have  the  faculty  of 
lending  himself,  with  profusion,  to  other  minds  and 
other  experiences — lending  himself,  but  not  giving, 
reserving  the  right  of  resuming  his  own  individuality 
and  of  applying  his  own  standards. 

That  resumption  of  self  is  easy  enough.     The  true 
difficulty  is  in  surrendering  it,  even  for  a  while.     One 
linds  the  task  particularly  hard,  I  think,  in  lending 
272 


VERSATILITY 

oneself  to  tastes  one  has  outgrown.  Remember  your 
schoolboy  enthusiasm  over  Macaulay's  style.  You 
have  lost  that  long  ago,  and  are  now,  perhaps,  a 
little  ashamed  of  it.  Yet  you  must  recapture  it,  if 
only  for  a  moment ;  that  is  to  say,  you  must  try  to 
reflect  in  yourself  the  joy  that  Maeaulay  felt  in  ^vrit- 
ing  as  he  did,  if  you  are  sitting  down  to  try  to  criticize 
hira  adequately.  This  is  difficult,  this  momentary 
renunciation  of  your  present  taste  in  favour  of  the 
taste  you  have  outgrown.  Remember  your  school- 
boy attitude  to  Scott ;  how  you  read  feverishly  for 
the  story  and  nothing  but  the  story,  and  simply 
skipped  the  long  prefaces  and  introductions  and 
copious  historical  notes  ?  To-day  your  taste  has 
matured,  and  you  see  the  prefaces  and  notes  as  a 
welcome  setting  for  the  story,  as  completing  for  you 
the  picture  of  the  author's  mind  in  the  act  of  com- 
position. But  you  will  have  to  go  back  to  your  dis- 
carded taste  and  think  only  of  the  story  if  you  are 
recommending  Scott  to  your  youngsters. 

Tliis  difficulty  is  perpetually  confronting  one  in 
the  theatre.  I  confess,  I  find  the  theatre  almost  as 
disconcerting  as  the  Literary  Supplement  for  an 
analogous,  though  not  identical,  reason.  In  that 
case  you  have  the  bewildering  spectacle  of  things 
unknown  ;  in  lliis,  of  tastes  outgrown.  One  after- 
noon I  saw  a  little  play  translated  from  the  French, 
limpid  in  expression,  simplicity  itself  in  form,  spare 
almost  to  austerity  in  its  use  of  tluMtrical  incans. 
Not  a  word,  not  a  situation,  was  empluisizcd.     This 

pp.  273  T 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

or  that  point  was  ncally,  briefly  indicated,  offered 
just  as  a  germ  which  might  be  safely  left  to  your  own 
intelligence  to  develop.  The  action  was  pure  acted 
irony,  but  not  an  ironical  word  was  uttered.  This, 
of  course,  is  the  sort  of  play  that  refreshes  the  jaded 
critic,  and  he  has  to  resist  the  temptation  to  over- 
praise it.  The  next  evening  I  saw  a  play  diligently 
crammed  with  everything  that  the  other  had  care- 
fully left  out — emphasis,  repetition,  six  words  where 
one  would  have  sufliccd,  "  dramatic  "  situations  and 
suspenses,  the  gentle  humours  of  life  concentrated 
into  eccentricities  of  stage  "  character."'  There  is  a 
numerous,  and  entirely  respectable,  public  with  a 
taste  in  this  stage  ;  it  likes  dots  on  its  i's,  things 
thrust  under  its  nose,  so  that  it  can  see  them,  and 
repeated  over  and  over  again,  so  that  it  can  under- 
stand them.  That  is  a  taste  which  the  jaded  critic 
cannot  but  have  outgrown.  Yet  the  play  was  good, 
sound  work  of  its  kind,  and  the  critic's  first  duty  was 
to  force  himself  back  into  his  outgrown  taste  and  see 
the  play  with  the  spirit  with  which  the  author  ^vrote 
it  and  its  proper  public  received  it.  I  say  his  first 
duty  ;  it  was  open  to  him  afterwards  to  recover  his 
own  personality  and  make  his  distinctions.  But 
tliis  first  duty  was  hard.  It  is  an  ever -recurring  trial 
of  critical  conscience.  "  These  arc  our  troubles,  Mr. 
Wesley,"  as  the  peevish  gentleman  said  when  the 
footman  put  too  much  coal  on  the  fire. 


274 


WOMEN'S    JOURNALS 

Who  was  the  wit  who,  to  the  usual  misquotation 
from  Buffon,  le  style  cest  Vhomme,  rejoined  mais  ce 
11  est  pas  la  fenune  ?  The  statement  has  perhaps  as 
much  truth  as  is  required  from  a  wittieism  ;  it  is 
half  true.  Woman,  unhke  man,  does  not  express  all 
of  herself.  She  has  her  reticences,  her  euphemisms, 
and  her  asterisks.  She  will  on  no  account  name  all 
things  by  their  names.  It  is  one  of  the  childish  weak- 
nesses of  men,  she  holds,  to  practise  veracity  to 
excess.  Like  children,  they  cannot  help  blurting  out 
the  truth.  But  she,  from  diligent  experiments  on  her 
own  person,  has  learnt  that  truth  looks  all  the  better 
for  having  its  nose  powdered  and  its  cheeks  discreetly 
rouged.  Readers  of  George  Sand's  "  Histoire  de  ma 
Vie  "  are  often  baflled  in  tracing  the  fine  distinction 
between  the  woman  and  the  make-up.  Therein  the 
work  is  typical,  illustrating  as  it  docs  the  general 
desire  of  women  in  literature  to  look  pretty — to  look 
pretty  in  their  mirror,  for  themselves,  for  their  own 
pleasure.  Not,  as  is  sometimes  erroneously  asserted, 
to  look  pretty  in  the  eyes  of  men  or  of  a  particular 
man.  So  one  is  amused  but  scarcely  convinced  by 
Heine's  well-known  remark  that  every  woman  who 
writes  has  one  eye  on  lur  pap(  r  and  the  other  on 

275  T  2 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

some  man — except  the  Countess  Hahn-Hahn,  who 
had  only  one  eye.  Evidently  the  generalization  was 
invented  just  to  spite  the  countess.  Mme.  de 
Sevigne's  letters  to  her  daughter  are  far  better  than 
those  to  Bussy-Rabutin.  George  Eliot  may  have  had 
one  eye  on  Lewes  when  she  did  her  best  to  spoil  her 
novels  by  scientific  pedantry — which  was  sheer 
waste  (let  alone  the  damage  to  the  novels),  as  Lewes 
was,  by  all  accounts,  the  ugliest  man  in  London. 
But  on  Avhat  man  had  Jane  Austen  an  eye  ?  One 
might  ask  the  question  about  our  thousands  of  women 
novelists  to-day,  and  at  once  see  the  refutation  of 
Heine  in  simple  arithmetic ;  there  would  not  be 
enough  men  to  go  round.  There  is  clearly  no  rule. 
Heine  may  have  been  thinking  of  George  Sand, 
already  mentioned,  whose  eye — her  "  glad  eye,"  I 
fear  it  must  be  called — revolved  as  she  wrote  upon  a 
round  dozen  of  men  in  turn. 

But  there  is  one  department  of  women's  literature 
wherein  the  element  of  doubt  altogether  vanishes. 
I  mean  the  journals  they  publisli,  or  get  published, 
for  themselves.  They  cannot  write  here  with  their 
eye  on  some  man.  Indeed,  men,  nice  men  ("  nice  " 
in  the  strict  sense,  approved  in  a  certain  talk  between 
Catherine  Morland  and  Henry  Tilney),  are  rather 
chary  of  even  approaching  such  journals.  They 
exhibit  advertisements  of  "  undies,"'  corsets,  and 
other  things  that  used  to  be  called  feminine  mysteries, 
but  are  now  entitled  perhaps  to  the  rank  of  notorieties 
which  make  one  instinctively  stammer,  "  Oh,  I  beg 
276 


WOMEN'S    JOURNALS 

your  pardon,"  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  So,  it  will 
at  once  be  said,  do  all  newspapers  nowadays,  and 
that  is  true.  Yet,  somehow,  one  feels  more  indiscreet 
in  lighting  upon  them  in  the  women's  journals  than 
in  the  others.  For  one  thing,  they  seem  to  be  more 
dainty  and  alluring  by  reason  of  more  artistic  execu- 
tion and  glazed  paper,  so  that  they  may  satisfy  the 
critical  eye  of  their  proper  wearers.  And,  for  • 
another,  there  is  a  difference  between  the  highroad 
of  the  newspaper,  whereon  a  man  willy-nilly  must 
travel,  and  the  by-path  of  the  women's  journal, 
where  he  is  at  best  a  privileged  intruder.  If  you 
ask,  "  Goosey,  goosey,  gander,  whither  sluiil  I 
wander  ?  "  there  is  a  distinct  difference  between 
answering,  "  Upstairs  and  downstairs,"  and  "  in  my 
lady's  chamber." 

All  this,  of  course,  as  the  judicious  will  have 
perceived,  really  means  that  I  am  as  interested  as,  I 
suppose,  are  most  of  my  fellow-men  in  all  these 
curiously  dainty  and  elegant  ingenuities  of  women's 
apparel,  and  that  I  am  only  pretending  to  be  shocked. 
(After  all,  in  his  pursuit  of  veracity,  even  a  man  may 
occasionally  powder  his  nose.)  The  advertisers, 
bless  them,  know  all  about  that.  They  know  that 
the  natural  man  shares  the  naive  admiration  which 
Pcpys  once  expressed  on  seeing  I.ady  C'astlomaine's 
wonderful  lingerie  and  laces  hanging  out  to  dry  on  a 
clothes-line  in  Whitehall.  But  the  natural  man 
generally  finds  it  convenient  to  Ije  more  reticent 
about  it  than  Pepys. 

277 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

The  first  number  of  the  Woman's  Supplement, 
which  has  prompted  these  reflections,  suggests 
another  :  the  perpetual  wonder  and  delight  of  men 
at  the  success  with  which  women  accommodate 
facts  to  their  ideals.  We  saw  tlicm,  just  now,  doing 
this  with  their  literature  ;  we  saw  them  determined 
that,  at  all  costs,  this  shall  be  pleasing  and  them- 
selves the  most  pleasing  things  in  it ;  we  saw  the 
notable  success  of  George  Sand  in  accommodating 
her  historical  to  her  ideal  self.  But  they  are  as 
successful  with  nature  as  with  history.  Just  now, 
for  example,  sloping  shoulders  are  manifestly  the 
ideal — sloping  shoulders  with  the  obviously  appro- 
priate balloon  sleeves,  as  in  Mr.  Bernard  Lintott's 
lady,  or  else  with  no  sleeves  at  all,  as  in  M.  Jean 
Doumerguc's.  And  part  of  the  same  ideal  is  that  the 
"  figure  "  shall  be  anything  but  "  full."  Now  are 
women's  shoulders  naturally  more  sloping  or  their 
figures  less  full  than  they  used  to  be  ?  These  are 
puzzling  questions,  but  not  beyond  conjecture,  and, 
for  my  part,  I  guess  that  the  answer  is  No.  Yet  our 
women  have  easily  triumphed  over  nature  and  slope 
their  shoulders  with  the  uniformity  of  a  regiment 
sloping  arms,  while  every  woman  with  a  full  figure 
has  quietly  bccoinc  a  fausse  jnaigre. 

While  I  am  about  it,  let  me  echo  the  usual  male 
protest.  As  the  Supplement  shows,  women  have  not 
yet  persuaded  themselves  to  abandon  their  detestable 
high  heels.  The  consequence  is  that  there  tiireatens 
to  be  no  longer  any  such  thing  as  a  graceful  gait. 

278 


WOMEN'S    JOURNALS 

Incessu  patuit  dea  ^vill  soon  have  become  an  incom- 
prehensible   allusion.      And    that    hideous    square 
patch  which  too  often  peeps  above  the  back  of  the 
shoe  ?     I  suppose  it  is  just  a  practical  device  to 
strengthen  the  stocking  in  a  part  of  stress  ;    but  I 
hardly  think  really  "  nice  "'  women  can  abide  it. 
On  the  whole,  however,  I  subscribe  cheerfully  to  the 
current  opinion  that  woman's  dress  was  never  so 
charming  as  it  is  at  present.     That  is  probably  an 
illusion.    The  mysterious  laws  that  regulate  fashion 
mercifully  regulate  also  the  capacity  for  enjoying  it. 
And  it  is  a  mercy,  too,  that  the  beauty  of  woman  can 
triumph  even  over  "  old-fashioned  "  things.    To  our 
modern  eyes  the  fashions  of  the  '70"s  and  '80"s  were 
far  from  beautiful  in  themselves — bunchy,  humpy, 
without  "  line."    Yet,  when  they  were  playing  Peter 
Ibhetson,  one  saw  some  fair  women  in  them — and 
was  at  once  reconciled,  able  in  fact  to  see  them  with 
the  eye  of  their  period. 


279 


PRACTICAL    LITERATURE 

"  Pray,  Sir,"  a  leader-writer  is  said  to  have 
asked  Delane,  "  how  do  you  say  '  good  fellow  '  in 
print  ?  "  and  to  have  been  answered,  "  Sir,  you 
should  not  say  it  at  all."  There  are  thousands  of 
ambitious  young  people  to-day  who  want  to  know 
how  you  say  good  fellow,  or  awful  snipe,  or  old 
bean,  or  whatever,  in  print,  and  that  is  why  there 
are  Schools  of  Journalism.  A  paper  of  instruc- 
tions from  one  of  these  excellent  institutions  has 
lately  fallen  into  my  hands,  and  there  seems  no 
reason  for  withholding  it  from  publication.  It 
appears  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  preliminary  intro- 
duction to  what  a  distinguished  journalist  has  well 
called  "  practical  literature."  For  Journahsts,  in 
Matthew  Arnold's  quotation,  drive  at  practice,  and 
to  be  practical  you  must  begin  by  learning  the  shib- 
boleths— that  is  to  say,  the  turns  of  phrase  and 
modes  of  treatment  that  long  experience  has 
approved  and  constant  readers  are  accustomed  to 
expect.  There  is  no  mystery  about  it ;  they  are 
much  more  simple  than  a  vain  people  supposeth. 
But  it  is  all-important  to  get  them  right  at  the  out- 
set— or,  as  is  said  in  practical  literature,  from  the 

280 


PRACTICAL    LITERATURE 

\void  "  go  " — and  the  advice  the  paper  has  to  give 
about  them  is  as  follows  : — 

Descriptive  Ariicles  on  Great  Occasions. — The 
beginner  will  probably  find  there  is  very  little  to 
describe.  He  must  learn  to  invent.  Street  crowds 
have  a  pestilent  habit  of  not  cheering  at  the  appro- 
priate moment  ;  your  first  business  will  be  to  make 
them.  Celebrities  flash  by  in  closed  carriages, 
totally  hidden  by  the  police  ;  you  will  ruthlessly 
expose  them,  bowing  to  the  storm  of  applause  which 
sweeps  across  the  nniltitude  filling  the  square  and 
lining  the  classic  steps  of  St.  Martin-in-the-Fields. 
If  the  Royal  Family  is  present  you  will  need  especial 
tact.  Find  the  golden  mean  between  the  familiar 
and  the  abject.  Be  human,  like  Euripides.  Above 
all,  the  homely  "  note "  is  recommended.  You 
cannot  say  too  often  that  the  King  "looked  bronzed." 
Thousands  of  pallid  readers  who  go  to  Margate  for 
a  week  in  order  to  come  back  looking  bronzed  will 
appreciate  that.  It  is  loyal,  it  attests  that  robust 
health  that  we  all  desire  for  his  Majesty,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  is  homely.  "  I,  too,  have  been  bronzed," 
the  reader  says,  as  the  barber  at  Byron's  funeral 
said,  "  I,  too,  have  been  unhappy."  Whatever  is 
offered  the  Queen,  a  bouquet,  a  trowel,  a  sample  of 
the  local  product  the  Queen  will  "  smilingly  accept." 
If  she  tastes  the  men's  (or  boy  seouts'  or  factory 
girls')  soup,  she  will  "  pronounce  it  excellent." 
Preserve  a  cheerful  tone,  especially  with  contre- 
temps. If  Gold  Stick  in  Waiting  droj)s  his  gold 
281 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

stick,  you  will  note  that  "  the  Royal  party  were 
highly  amused  "  and  that  "  the  little  Princess 
laughed  heartily." 

Politics  and  International  Affairs. — Here  prac- 
tical literature  takes  a  hint  from  the  other  sort.  Be 
historical.  13c  reminded  of  the  great  Westminster 
Election  and  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Remem- 
ber Speaker  Onslow.  Compare  whatever  you  dis- 
like to  the  Rump.  Magna  Charta  and  Habeas 
Corpus  must  now  be  allowed  a  rest,  but  you  may 
still  allude  to  Thermidor  and  Brumaire,  the  Moim- 
tain  and  the  Cordeliers  Club.  "  Mr."  Pitt  sounds 
well.  Open  your  leader  with  "  Nothing  in  the  annals 
of  diplomacy  since  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht  (or  the 
Treaty  of  Vienna,  or  whatever  other  treaty  you^  can 
think  of)  has  so  disgraced,"  &c.  The  second  para- 
graph should  begin  "  Nor  is  that  all."  Be  slightly 
archaistic.  Words  like  "  caitiff  "  and  "  poltroon  " 
may  be  discreetly  used.  Books  recommended  for 
the  course :  Gibbon,  Junius,  early  volumes  of 
Punch,  Mahan's  "  Sea  Power,"  and  (for  quotations) 
R.  L.  Stevenson's  "  Wrong  Box." 

Foreign  Correspondence. — Remember  that  the 
particular  capital  you  happen  to  be  posted  at  is  the 
real  hub  of  your  newspaper,  and  wonder  every 
morning  "  what  those  fellows  at  the  London  odice 
can  be  about"  to  printsomuchstuff  about  their  silly 
local  affairs.  Practise  political  divination  from  the 
minutest  data.  If  some  little  actress  at  the  Marigny, 
or  Belasco's,  makes  you  a  pied  de  nez  you  will  say 

282 


PRACTICAL    LITERATURE 

that  "  the  GaUic  temper  (or  pubHc  opinion  in  the 
Eastern  States)  is  showing  signs  of  dangerous  exas- 
peration." If  you  find  a  junior  Attache  lunching 
at  the  golf  club  on  Sunday,  you  will  say  "  the  poli- 
tical tension  is  now  at  any  rate  momentarily  relaxed." 
If  they  charge  you  a  few  centimes  or  cents  more  for 
your  box  of  chocolates  you  will  say  "  the  population 
is  now  groaning  under  famine  prices,  and  State  inter- 
vention cannot  be  much  longer  delayed." 

Criticism  of  tJie  Arts  and  the  Theatre. — As  criti- 
cism is  not  practical,  it  hardly  comes  within  the 
scope  of  instructions  on  practical  literature.  But 
newspapers,  after  all,  must  be  filled,  and,  if  the 
advertisements  permit,  room  may  be  found  even 
for  criticism.  Fortunately,  it  rc(iuires  little  if  any 
instruction.  The  office  boy,  if  he  is  not  proud,  may 
be  turned  on  to  it  at  a  pinch.  The  charwomen,  when 
they  can  be  spared  from  their  more  useful  work, 
often  prove  neat  hands  at  it.  Ideas  are  to  be  dis- 
couraged ;  a  few  catchwords  are  all  that  is  necessary, 
with  one  decent  hat  for  Private  Views  and  one  ditto 
dress  suit  for  First  Nights.  The  art  critic  will  do 
well  to  find  a  new  and  unknown  artist  and  track  him 
down  from  show  to  show,  cotn[)aring  iiim  in  turn  to 
Tintoretto,  the  lesser  Umbrians,  and  the  Giottos  at 
Padua.  (See  Vasari  passim,  a  repertory  of  delight- 
ful names.)  The  theatrical  critic  will  make  it  his 
chief  care  to  construct  a  striking  sentence  which  the 
managers  can  quote,  without  excessive  garbling,  in 
their  advertisements.    It  can  end  with  "  rapturously 

288 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

applauded,"  with  "  rocked  with  laughter,"  or  with 
"  for  many  a  night  to  come." 

N.B. — Personally  conducted  parties  of  students 
taken  to  the  theatre  to  see  leading  actresses  "  making 
great  strides  in  their  art  "  and  "  having  the  ball  at 
their  feet  "  and  to  watch  Mr.  Collins  "  surpassing 
himself."  They  will  afterwards  be  shown  cases  of 
type  and  instructed  inthethermometrical  testof  the 
temperature  at  which  it  becomes  "  cold  print." 

.  .  .  The  paper  does  not  end  here.  In  a  special 
section  on  the  language  of  the  poster,  it  offers  a 
prize  for  any  hitherto  undiscovered  application  of 
the  word  "  amazing."  It  goes  on  to  give  instruc- 
tions to  writers  on  cricket,  golf,  and  sport,  with  a 
stock  selection  of  anecdotes  about  "  W.G."  and 
"  E.M.,"  and  a  plan  to  scale  of  the  Dormy  House 
and  Mr.  Harry  Tate's  moustache  when  he  addresses 
the  ball  and  the  audience.  But  these  are  a\\'ful 
mysteries  which  I  dare  not  follow  the  paper  in 
profaning. 


284 


NINETEENT  II-C  E  N  T  U  R  Y  W  O  M  A  N 

The  serious  research  that  some  contemporary 
French  students  are  dev^oting  to  our  English  Utera- 
ture  is  one  of  thi;  most  valuable  by-products  of  the 
Entente.  We  have  had  of  recent  years  remarkable 
French  monographs  on  Wordsworth,  on  Co^vper,  on 
Crabbe,  on  Hazlitt,  which  are  fully  as  authoritative 
as  any  of  our  native  commentaries.  And,  turning 
over  the  new  volumes  at  a  French  booksellers  the 
other  day,  I  came  across  another  Gallic  tribute  of 
this  kind,  with  a  rather  lengthy  title,  "  La  Femme 
Anglaise  au  XIX"  siccle  et  son  evolution  d'aprcs  le 
roman  anglais  contemporain,"  by  Mme.  Leonie 
Villard.  Mnic.  Villard  seems  to  have  read  all 
our  modern  English  novels,  from  Richardson's 
"  Pamela  "  do\vn  to  the  latest  piece  of  propagandism 
of  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells.  Of  course  mere  literary 
curiosity  could  never  have  carried  any  human  being 
through  all  that ;  Mme.  Villard  is  an  ardent 
"  feminist,"  and,  like  her  sisters,  capalile  of  miracu- 
lous physical  endurance  for  tlie  "  cause."  A  mere 
man  may  "  devour  whole  libraries,"  but  it  takes  a 
fair  feminist  to  swallow  the  huge  mass  of  English 
ik'tion. 

285 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

Reading  exclusively  from  a  single  point  of  view, 
Mme.  Villard  seems  to  have  sometimes  sacrificed  her 
critical  sense  to  her  principles.  Thus,  as  a  type  of 
tiie  nineteenth-century  "  old  maid/'  so  neglected,  so 
ill-used  by  society,  she  selects  Miss  Rachel  Wardle  ! 
Dickens,  generally  "  so  pitiful  to  the  weak,  so  gene- 
rous to  the  oppressed  and  the  conquered,"  had  no 
pity  for  her.  But  upon  us  it  is  incumbent  to  pity 
and  understand  and  find  excuses  for  her.  "  At  any 
rate,  her  desire  to  be  loved  and,  above  all,  to  experi- 
ence in  other  surroundings  a  freer  and  less  humiliat- 
ing life  should  have  nothing  surprising  for  us." 
Isn't  this  rather  a  solemn  way  of  describing  the 
lady's  amours  with  Mr,  Tupman  and  Mr.  Jingle  ? 
Is  it  really  the  fault  of  society  if  an  amorous  old  dame 
will  be  silly  ?  And  is  she  not  to  be  laughed  at  if  she 
happen  to  fall  into  the  category  "  old  maid  ""  ? 
Mrs.  Bardell  was  amorous  too.  So  was  Mr.  Tupman. 
Dickens  laughs  at  these  also — but  then  they  were 
not  old  maids,  they  didn't  illustrate  a  "  feminine 
case."  Then  there  was  Mrs.  Jellyby.  She  reminded 
some  people  of  Harriet  Martineau.  But  Dickens  had 
deformed  the  type  (who  was  intelligent  and  was  not 
the  mother  of  a  family)  so  as  to  present  the  "  new 
woman  "  in  the  least  favourable  light.  He  "  has 
fixed  for  half  a  century  the  type  of  the  intellectual 
or  enfranchised  woman,  as  conceived  by  those  who 
trust  the  judgment  of  others  rather  than  their  own 
direct  observation."  The  question,  surely,  is  not 
whether  Mrs.  Jellyby  was  unlike  Harriet  Martineau, 
286 


N I  N  E  T  E  E  N  T  H-C  E  N  T  U  R  Y  W  O  M  A  N 

but  whether  in  herself  she  was  a  sufficiently  comic 
personage.  Most  readers  of  Dickens  find  her  so. 
What  injustice  is  there  in  this  to  the  real  "  new 
woman,"  whom,  as  Mme.  Villard  has  sho^v^^,  she 
did  not  resemble  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  when 
Dickens  had  a  mind  to  draw  a  real  "  strong-minded  " 
woman  he  drew  her  most  sympathetically.  Is  there 
any  of  his  women  more  delightful  than  Miss  Trot- 
wood  ?  "  To-day,'"  says  Mme.  Villard,  "  she  appears 
to  us  an  unconscious  feminist  whose  feminism  misses 
its  mark,  since  it  can  find  no  field  of  action  amid 
narrow,  provincial,  routine  surroundings."  Poor 
Miss  Trotwood  ! 

We  are  to  understand  that  it  was  the  domination 
and  the  selfishness  of  man  that  created  the  lament- 
able type  of  nineteenth-century  "  old  maid."  But 
who  were  unkindest  to  Miss  Wardle  ?  Her  nieces, 
members  of  her  own  sex.  Who  created  the  typical 
"  old  maid  "  and  terrible  l)ore.  Miss  Bates  ?  Another 
"  old  maid,"  Jane  Austen.  The  fact  is,  old  maids 
like  other  human  beings  have  their  foibles.  Are 
these  never  to  be  put  into  a  book  ?  Feminism 
seems  to  make  its  disciples  terribly  serious.  Miss 
La  Creevy  is  Dickens's  example  of  ihc  femme  artiste. 
See,  says  Mme.  Villard,  how  types  of  "  indepen- 
dent women  "  are  caricatured  !  She  cannot  laugh 
at  Sairey  Gamp  and  Betsy  Prig,  because  they  testify 
to  the  social  contempt  attaching  to  the  nursing 
profession  at  their  date  !  Has  it  never  occurred  to 
her  that  novels  are  sometimes  written  merely  as 
287 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

novels  and  not  as  dossiers  in  a  "  case  "  for  the 
"  evolution  "  of  woman  ? 

After  all,  however,  there  are  plenty  of  serious 
novelists  who  do  supply  good  evidence — more  par- 
ticularly the  quasi-propagandists  like  Mrs.  Gaskell 
(when  she  chose)  and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  (some- 
times), and  (nearly  always)  Mr.  Galsworthy  and 
Mr.  Wells.  Mme.  Villard  makes  effective  play  with 
these.  She  has  no  difficulty,  for  instance,  in  showing 
the  immense  economic  advance  of  the  woman-worker 
during  the  last  century,  though  even  here  her  eye 
seems  too  exclusively  fixed  on  her  own  sex.  True, 
women  were  the  chief  victims  of  the  old  "  factory  " 
and  "  sweating  "  systems,  but  the  amelioration  of 
their  condition,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  came  only  as 
part  of  the  general  amelioration  in  the  condition  of 
"  labour,"  without  sex-distinction. 

It  is  when  she  comes  to  the  sentimental  side  of  her 
subject,  the  relation  of  woman  to  man  whether  in 
marriage  or  "  free  love,"  that  Mme.  Villard  finds  her 
material  a  little  too  much  for  her.  Naturally,  for 
our  novelists  and  playwTights  can  never  let  the  too 
fascinating  subject  alone  and  seem  to  go  on  saying 
the  same  things  about  it  over  and  over  again — con 
variazioni.  You  have,  for  example,  Mrs.  Gaskell, 
so  far  back  as  1850,  dealing  with  the  same  theme  as 
Mr.  Stanley  Houghton  dealt  with  in  "  Ilindle 
Wakes  "  (1910) — the  refusal  of  the  seduced  woman 
'o  accept  the  regularization  of  her  position  by 
marriage.  Then  there  are  the  free-lovers  "  on 
288 


NINETEENTH-CENTURY  WOMAN 

principle,"  who  end  by  conceding  marriage  to  social 
prejudice — like  Mr.  Wells's  Ann  Veronica.     There 
must  be  English  novels  where  the  "  free  lovers  " 
maintain  their  principle  triumphantly  to  the  end, 
though  I  haven't  read  them  ;  but  I  seem  to  remem- 
ber several  in  the  French  language.     It  is  all  very 
confusing.     Perhaps — I  only  say  perhaps — those  are 
wisest  who  leave  "  principle  "  in  these  matters  to 
the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  novelists  and  are 
content  to  live  ordinary  lives  in  an  ordinary  jog-trot 
way,  \\'ithout  too  much  thinking  about  it.     There  is 
this    comfort    for    the    old-fashioned    commonplace 
people  among  us,  at  any  rate,  that  whatever  "  evolu- 
tion "  of  woman  there  may  have  been  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  she  remains  in  all  essentials  very 
much  what  she  used  to  be.     I  can  find  it  as  easy 
to-day  to  be  in  love  with  Emma  and  Elizabeth  and 
Anne — I  needn't  mention  their  surnames — who  are 
more  than  a  century  old,  bless  them,  as  with  (not  to 
compromise  myself  with  any  contemporary  Englisli 
heroine)    M.    Barres's    Berenice,   or    with    one    of 
M.  Marcel  Proust's  "  Jeunes  filles  en  Fleurs." 


289 


PICKLES    AND    PICARDS 

A  WRITER  in  the  Nouvelle  Revue  Francaise  drops  a 
remark  which  it  does  one  good  to  read.  He  says 
that  in  the  old  Freneh  villages  on  the  Picardy  front 
all  that  the  English  have  taught  the  countryfolk  in 
five  years  of  cohabitation  is  to  eat  pickles  with  their 
boiled  beef.  Very  likely  this  is  a  humorous  perver- 
sion of  the  truth  ;  but  I  should  like  to  believe  it. 
Not  from  any  personal  interest  in  pickles,  though 
that  will  seem  odd,  and  perhaps  incredible,  to  my 
French  friends,  who  seem  to  think  that  every 
Englishman  must  be  a  pickle-cater — ^just  as  we 
English  used  to  think  every  Frenchman  ate  frogs. 
No  doubt,  however,  this  French  generalization  is 
fairly  accurate  ;  we  are  a  nation  of  pickle-eaters, 
and  if  any  one  asks  why,  I  guess  the  answer  is  cold 
beef.  Anyhow,  the  idea  has  fascinated  the  French 
mind.  Among  the  English  characteristics  of  which 
Jules  Lcniaitre  once  gave  a  list  (from  hearsay,  which 
he  thought,  good,  easy  man,  as  authentic  evidence 
as  coming  to  see  England  for  himself)  I  remember 
he  mentions  "  Les  pickles.^^  And  it  is  the  one  English 
characteristic  that  has  infected  the  Pieards  ! 

My  reason  for  rejoicing  is  that  they  have  not  been 
infected   by   more   than   one,   that   in   spite   of  all 
290 


PICKLES    AND    PICARDS 

temptations,  etc.,  they  remain  (pickles  excepted) 
true  Picards.  There  have  been  times  (particularly 
in  mid-cifrhtecnth  eent\iry)  when  the  French  have 
shown  a  tendency  to  Anglomania.  Let  us  be  glad 
that  these  arc  over.  Probably  the  French  Revolu- 
tion settled  that  point,  as  it  settled  so  many  others, 
by  isolating  France  for  the  time  being,  and  making 
her  the  common  enemy.  More  than  one  of  the 
Terrorists  were  Picards  by  race,  but  you  may  be 
sure  they  never  ate  pickles.  But  cohabitation  may 
bring  about  the  same  result  as  isolation,  in  a  different 
way.  Our  armies  have  lived  for  five  years  with  the 
French  ;  both  natives  and  visitors  have  had  ample 
opportunities  for  observing  each  other's  charac- 
teristics ;  and  I  like  to  think  that  both  have 
parted  with  the  profound  conviction  that,  on  cither 
side,  these  arc  inimitable.  Condiments,  of  course, 
excepted.  They  have  adoj)tcd  our  pickles,  and  we 
have  taken  their  sauce  higarade,  which  is  excellent 
with  wild  duck.  Condiments,  by  the  way,  include 
the  linguistic  sort.  We  have  seen  the  delight  with 
which  Lemaitrc  wrote  down  that  strange,  abrupt, 
tart  Englisji  word  "  j)iekles  "  in  his  French  text.  So 
some  of  our  own  scribblers  wantonly  and  wickedly 
flavour  their  writings  with  an  occasional  French 
phrase,  because  it  seems  to  tlieni  lo  give  a  |)i<[uaney, 
a  zest.  These  apart,  let  us  by  all  means  admire  one 
another's  qualities  without  seeking  to  interchange 
them.  Let  us  jealously  preserve  oiir  own  charac- 
teristics, our  own  type,  like    the  Picardy  villagers. 

291  U3 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

National  peculiarities  arc  the  perpetual  joy  of  travel 
(except  when  one  side  wants  the  wndow  down  and 
the  other  up),  the  bouquet  of  literature,  the  salt  of  life. 
Talkiuf,'  of  travel,  we  have  been  having  a  corre- 
spondence in  2'he  Times  on  the  lavatories  and  the 
closed  windows  on  the  P.L.M.    I  am  not  using  that 
railway  myself  just  now,  and  I  confess  I  like  to  see 
that    here    again    the    French    remain    obstinately 
French.     France  is  endeared  to  us,  like  any  other 
friend,  by  its  weaknesses  as  well  as  its  virtues  ;    it 
would,  for  many  of  us,  not  be  the  old  friend  that  we 
know  and  love  without  its  occasional  stuUincss  and 
its  occasional  smells.     Louis  Veuillot  once  >vrote  a 
book  called  "  Les  Odours  do  Paris."     We  have  all 
smelt  them,  and  should  hardly  recognize  our  Paris 
without  them — though  they  must  have  had  more 
pungency,  a  more  racy,  romantic  flavour  in  Ualzac's 
Paris,  the  Paris  of  our  dreams.     Nowadays  for  the 
rich  Balzacian  smells  you  will  have  to  \'isit  some  of 
the   provincial   towns   of  his   novels,   and   so   your 
pilgrimage  will  combine  a  literary  with  all    factory 
interest.     I  know  of  one  old  Burgimdian  town — I 
will  not   name  it,   for  obvious  reasons— not   men- 
tioned, I  fancy,  by  Balzac,  quite  untouched  by  time, 
with  pepi)er-pot  towers,  a  river  in  a  deep  ravine,  and 
well  worth  a  literary  pilgrimage  if  only  for  its  asso- 
ciations with  Mme.  do  Sevigne  and  the  President  de 
Brosses,  where  you  have  the  added  delight  of  the 
richest  medieval  odours  powerfully  assisted   by  a 
tannery — an  unrivalled  combination  !     Why  do  so 
292 


PICKLES    AND    PICARDS 

many  Englishmen  gnimblc  at  these  things  instead  of 
appreciating  them  aesthetically,  as  accompaniments 
of  the  French  scene,  as  part  of  that  varied  experience 
which  we  call  "  abroad  "  ?  Or  why  do  they  explain 
them  on  the  illiberal  assumption  of  some  inherent 
inferiority  in  the  French  character  ? 

I  find  a  typical  specimen  of  this  kind  of  explana- 
tion in  Hazlitt's    "  Notes    of   a    Journey    through 
France  and  Italy,*'  made  about  a  century  ago,  when 
France  was  the  very  France  (think  of  it  !)  that  was 
being   observed,    and   about   to   be   described,    by 
Balzac.    One  would  have  thought  that  the  Londoner 
of  1824.  (who  must  have  been  pretty  well  \ised  to 
smells   at    home)    would    have    fomid    some   other 
explanation  than  the  physiological  and  psychological 
inferiority    of  the    French.      But    hear    him.      "  A 
Frenchman's    senses   and    understanding   are   alike 
insensible  to  pain — he  recognizes  (happily  for  him- 
self) the  exis-tence  only  of  that  which  adds  to  his 
importance  or  his  satisfaction.    He  is  deliglited  with 
perfumes,  but  passes  over  the  most  offensive  smells 
and  will  not  lift  up  his  little  finger  to  remove  a  general 
nuisance,  for  it  is  none  to  him."'    To  which  he  appends 
a    note  : — "  One    woidd    think    that    a    people    so 
devoted    to    perfumes,    who   deal    in    essences   and 
scents,  and  iiave  fifty  different  sorts  of  snuffs,  would 
be  eciualiy  nice,  and  offended  at  the  approach  of 
every  disagreeable  odour.     Not  so.     They  seem  to 
have  no  sense  of  the  disagreeable  in  smells  or  tastes, 
as  if  their  heads  were  stuffed  with  a  cold,  and  hang 
298 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

over  a  dunghill,  as  if  it  were  a  bed  of  roses,  or  swallow 
the  most  detestable  dishes  with  the  greatest  relish. 
Tlic  nerve  of  their  sensibility  is  bound  up  at  the 
point  of  pain.  .  .  They  make  the  best  of  everything 
(whieh  is  a  virtue) — ^and  treat  the  worst  with  levity 
or  complaisance  (which  is  a  vice)." 

Well,  well.  When  this  was  written  French  and 
English  had  not  long  ceased  to  be  at  war,  and  Hazlitt 
was  never  a  sweet-tempered  man.  But  you  can  still 
find  the  censorious  Englishman  who  is  ready  deci- 
sively to  mark  off  French  characteristics  into 
"  virtues "  and  "  vices,"  according  to  his  own 
English  standard.  There  may,  for  all  I  know,  be 
some  Frenchman  who  gives  us  tit  for  tat.  Tliis  type 
of  critic  is  tiresome  enough  ;  but  there  is  another 
that  seems  to  me  quite  intolerable,  the  critic  who 
detests  all  national  peculiarities  as  sucli,  and  would 
level  down  all  humanity  to  one  monotonous  level  of 
sameness.  As  though  uniformity  were  not  already 
the  plague  of  the  modern  world  !  \Ve  men  all  wear 
the  same  hat  (despite  the  efforts  of  the  Daily  Mail), 
women  all  powder  their  noses  in  the  same  way,  and 
the  "  cinema  palaces  "  all  show  the  same  films,  with 
the  same  ''  Mary  "  and  the  same  "  Dug."  For 
heaven's  sake,  let  us  cling  to  our  national  peculiari- 
ties ! 

And  that  is  why  I  welcome  the  intelligence  that 
the  Picards  have  taken  ov^er  nothing  from  us  but  our 
pickles,  and  that  the  French  travellers  on  the  P.L.M. 
still   insist   on   keeping   the   window   up.      Let  our 

294 


PICKLES    AND    PICARDS 

enthusiasts  for  a  uniform  world  ponder  these  facts. 
And  it  is  a  rcUef  to  think  that  they  can  never  unify 
national  landscapes.  The  village  green,  the  cottage 
gardens,  the  chalk  downs,  the  chines,  the  red  coombs 
will  always  be  English.  The  long  straight  route 
nationale  and  the  skinny  fowls  that  are  always  stray- 
ing across  it,  the  poplar-bordered  streams,  the  trim 
vines  ranked  along  the  hill-side,  the  heavily- 
accoutred  gendarme  and  the  fat  farmer  in  the  stiff 
indigo  blouse  hobnobbing  at  the  esiaminet,  these  will 
always  be  French.  Oh,  but  I  would  give  something 
to  see  that  indigo  blouse  again,  and  have  a  morning 
chat  with  the  farmer  !  "  He  !  pere  Martin,  9a  va 
toujours  bien  ?  Pas  mal,  m'sieu.  Et  la  recolte  ? 
Dame  !  je  ne  m'en  plains  pas  ...  a  la  votre, 
m'sieu  !  "  They  may  take  our  pickles,  if  they  will, 
but  let  them  remain  themselves,  our  old  French 
friends. 


2l>5 


THE    BUSINESS    MAN 

It  is  not  easy  for  the  slave  of  "  eopy,"  sedentary 
and  shy,  to  know  that  triumphant  figure  of  the  aetive, 
bustling  world,  the  business  man.  The  business 
man  is  too  busy,  and  can  only  be  seen  in  offiee  hours, 
when  the  scribe  is  correcting  proofs  or,  perhaps,  not 
yet  up.  Nevertheless,  I  once  nearly  saw  the 
Governor  of  the  Bank  of  England.  I  hold  the 
Governor  to  be  the  archetype  of  the  business  man. 
In  my  green  luiknowing  youth  I  used  to  take  the 
gentleman  in  cocked  hat  and  picturesque  robe  at 
the  Threadneedle  Street  entrance  for  the  Governor, 
but  now  know  better.  Well,  I  once  nearly  saw  the 
Governor.  It  was  on  the  stage.  Mr.  Gerald  du 
Maurier  was  in  the  bank-})arlour  when  a  servant 
entered  and  said  :  "  The  Governor  of  the  Bank  of 
England  to  call  on  you,  sir."  "  Show  him  in,"  said 
Mr,  du  Maurier  with  the  easy  nonchalance  of  which 
only  actors  have  the  secret.  It  was  a  tremendous 
moment.  I  seemed  to  hear  harps  in  the  air.  And 
just  then,  do\\Ti  came  the  curtain  !  It  was  felt,  no 
doubt,  that  the  Governor  of  the  Bank  of  England 
ought  not  to  be  made  a  motley  to  the  view.  But  I 
was  inconsolable.  I  had  been  robbed  of  my  one 
chance  of  seeing  the  siipreme  business  man. 
29G 


THE    BUSINESS    MAN 

Of  late,  however,  the  veil  that  shrouds  the  business 
man  from  the  non-business  eye  has  been  partly 
lifted.  The  pictorial  advertisement  people  have  got 
hold  of  him  and  give  brief,  tantalizing  glimpses  of  his 
daily  life.  Maeterlinck  speaks  of  "  Tauguste  vie 
quotidicnne  "  of  Hamlet.  That  only  shows  that 
Hamlet  (it  is  indeed  his  prime  characteristic)  was  not 
a  business  man.  For  the  business  mans  daily  life, 
if  the  advertisements  are  to  be  trusted,  is  not  so  much 
august  as  alert,  strenuous,  and,  above  all,  devoted  to 
the  pleasures  of  tiie  toilet.  And  his  toilet  seems,  for 
the  most  part,  to  centre  in  or  near  his  chin.  Indeed, 
it  is  by  his  chin  that  you  identify  the  business  man. 
You  know  what  Pascal  said  of  Cleopatra's  nose  : 
how,  if  it  had  been  an  inch  shorter,  the  whole  history 
of  the  world  would  have  been  different.  Much  the 
same  thing  may  be  said  about  the  Ijusiness  man's 
chin.  Had  it  been  receding  or  pointed  or  dimpled  or 
double,  there  would  have  been  no  business  man  and 
consequently  no  business.  But  things,  as  Bishop 
Butler  said,  are  what  they  are  and  their  consequences 
will  be  what  they  will  be.  The  business  man's  chin 
is  j)rominent,  square,  firm,  and  (unless  he  deals  in 
rubber  tires — the  sole  exception  to  the  ruK)  smooth. 
It  is  as  smooth  as  Spedding's  forehead,  celebrated  by 
Thackeray  and  Edward  Fitzgerald.  It  is,  indeed, 
like  that  forehead,  a  kind  of  landmark,  a  public  nioiui- 
ment.  Even  the  rich,  velvety  lather,  which  docs 
not  dry  on  the  face  and  leaves  behind  a  feeling  of 
complete  comfort  and  well-grooming,  cannot  dis- 
297 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

guise  it.  No  wonder  the  business  man  is  so  particu- 
lar about  shaving  it  !  It  is  a  kind  of  religious  rite, 
an  Early  Matins,  with  him. 

Outside  the  bank-parlour  the  mart  and  the  ex- 
change the  business  man  takes  no  risks,  and  at  his 
toilet-table  he  prefers  safety  razors.  Indeed,  he 
collects  them.  Sometimes  he  favours  the  sort  that 
can  be  stropped  in  a  moment  with  one  turn  of  the 
wrist ;  sometimes  the  sort  that  needs  no  stropping 
at  all.  But,  like  all  collectors,  he  is  never  so  happy  as 
when  handling,  or  rather  caressing  the  objects  of  his 
collection.  Mark  liow  his  eyes  dance  with  delight  and 
his  smile  sweetens  as  the  razor  courses  over  his  chin. 
Evidently  life  at  this  moment  is  burning  for  him 
with  a  hard  gem-like  flame.  Call  it  not  shaving ! 
Say,  rather,  he  is  ministering  to  the  symbolic  element 
in  him,  daintily  smoothing  the  proud  emblem  of  his 
power — to  which  he  will  add  the  finishing  touch  of 
pearl-powder,  whose  constant  use  produces  a  delicate 
bloom,  tones  up  the  complexion,  and  protects  the 
skin  against  the  ravages  of  time. 

When  the  chin  has  been  prepared  for  the  business 
day  he  tries  and  contrasts  the  several  effects  of  it 
over  a  variety  of  collars.  For  the  business  man 
collects  collars,  too.  His  chin  protrudes  with  quiet 
but  firm  insistence  over  some  of  them,  nestles  coyly 
in  others,  or  it  may  be  emerges  with  ease  from  the 
sort  designed  to  give  ample  throat  room  and  espe- 
cially favoured  by  men  who  seek  considerable  freedom 
but  at  the  same  time  a  collar  of  character  and  dis- 
298 


THE    BUSINESS    MAN 

tinction.  Nor  has  he  any  false  shame  about  being 
seen  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  In  fact,  he  seems  to  be  in 
the  habit,  when  half-dressed,  of  calling  in  his  friends 
(evidentl}',  from  their  chins,  fellow  business  men)  to 
see  how  perfectly  his  shirt  fits  at  the  neck  and  how 
its  thoroughly  shrunk  material  is  none  the  worse  for 
repeated  visits  to  the  laundry. 

Once  dressed — and  I  pass  over  his  interviews  witli 
his  tailor  (he  collects  overcoats),  because  that  would 
lead  us  far  and  might  land  us,  unawares,  among 
sportsmen,  or  airmen,  or  other  non-business  men — 
once  dressed,  he  is  to  be  seen  at  his  office.  That  does 
not  mean  that  he  is  to  be  seen  at  work.  No,  it  is 
a  somewhat  sinister  fact  that  the  advertisements 
hardly  ever  show  the  business  man  engaged  in  busi- 
ness. You  may  find  him  at  an  enormous  desk 
bristling  with  patent  devices  and  honeycombed  witli 
pigeon-holes,  where  he  sees  himself  invested  with 
perfect  control  and  rid  of  all  petty  routine  anomalies, 
with  a  mind  free  to  consider  questions  of  policy 
and  the  higher  aspirations  of  his  house.  IJut  not, 
in  bhuit  English,  working,  oh  dear  no  !  He  is 
pleasantly  gossiping  with  another  business  man,  who 
is  loUing  over  the  edge  of  the  desk  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette. Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  you  may  get  a 
glimpse  of  liiin  at  the  tekplione.  Jiut  then  his 
tender  smile  gives  him  away.  It  is  obviously  no 
business  conversation  hut  an  appointment  for  lunch 
with  his  fianci'-e. 

Only  one  advertisement  artist  has  ever  "  spotted  " 
299 


PASTICHE    AND    PREJUDICE 

him  at  work.  He  was  addressing  the  board.  The 
board  all  wore  white  waistcoats,  the  same  business 
chin,  and  the  same  dry  smile  as  the  orator,  who  with 
clenched  fist  and  flashing  eye  assured  them  of  his 
conviction  that  increased  production  results  from 
the  bond  of  mutual  goodwill  created  between 
employer  and  employee  by  the  board's  system  of 
life  assurance.  Altogether,  a  very  jolly  party.  But 
outside  the  world  of  business  men  it  wouldn't  be 
considered  work.  Really,  for  work  it  looks  as  though 
you  would  have  to  go  to  the  non-business  man. 
Think  of  Balzac's  eighteen  hours  a  day  ! 

But  the  business  man,  I  daresay,  will  reply,  as 
they  said  to  the  sonneteer  in  Molierc,  that  "  Le 
temps  ne  fait  rien  a  I'affaire."  Certainly,  the  busi- 
ness man's  time  doesn't — for  you  next  find  him,  in 
spick  and  span  evening  dress,  at  the  dinner-table, 
beaming  at  the  waiter  who  has  brought  him  his 
favourite  sauce.  The  business  man  collects  sauces, 
but  prefers  the  sauce  that  goes  with  everything. 
After  dinner  you  may  see  him,  before  a  roaring  fire, 
holding  up  his  glass  of  port  to  the  light  and  telling 
another  business  man  who  the  shipper  is.  Last 
scene  of  all,  a  night-piece,  you  have  a  glimpse  of  him 
in  his  pyjamas  merrily  discoursing  with  several 
other  business  men  (in  different  patterns  of  the  same 
unshrinkal)lc  fabric)  all  sitting  cross-legged  and 
smoking  enormous  cigars.  This  is  the  end  of  a 
perfect  business  day.  And  you  conclude  that  busi- 
ness men  sleep  in  dormitories. 

THE    END. 

Tlir    WMITtntlAliS    rilKRH,    LTD.,    I^Mx^K    AND    TONBKIDliK. 


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